From Darkness To Light
by Outerbankschick
Summary: Takes place after Frame, before S8. On leave after his brother's murder, Bobby meets a woman full of passion and fire who seeks to convince him that it's never too late for love. Chapter 1 rated T, all others rated M. OC with a dose of AU. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Of course, the usual disclaimers apply. All rights to any characters attached to Law & Order: Criminal Intent are the property of Dick Wolf. I just play with them now and again. And the rights to all other characters belong to me. :)

This is a story that I wrote during the wait for S8. I wrote it before we knew anything about Bobby's recovery period, before Molly, or any of that, so it's very AU compared to what we actually got in S8. Frame stayed with me for so long, and so did Bobby's pain. I couldn't hold it in, so here's the result. Sweetly romantic...just warning ya! ;)

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**Chapter 1**

A frisky breeze blew along the shore, teased the waves as they rolled up like white lace against the sand. The gulls wheeled and cried overhead while sandpipers scuttled by on toothpick legs.

Children laughed, shouted to each other as they played in the waves. Mothers called out that it was nearly time to go in and get ready for dinner. Cries of "Aw. . .Mom" could be heard echoing down the beach.

There would be a lot of good-natured grouching while those same children were herded gently toward summer rentals, or year-round homes, dragging boogie boards and sand toys behind them as they followed their parents away from the shore.

Shayla smiled as she strolled along, with Finn staying close beside her. She remembered those days. Long, hot days of playing in the waves, running in the sand, her skin warmed by the sun and sticky with the salt of the sea.

She had always loved to ride those waves, first on a boogie board, then later a surfboard. She still enjoyed surfing now and again, though she hadn't done it in awhile. Mostly she stuck to body surfing or using a boogie board, but occasionally she pulled out her old surfboard and enjoyed a few wild rides on it.

Today was for walking, and for enjoying. Most days she walked in the opposite direction, back west, toward the Fire Island Lighthouse, which was nestled in a state park about a mile from her house. It was quieter, and the shells and beach glass she collected more plentiful.

But today she just wanted to watch the children play and observe the human life on the island, as opposed to the wildlife.

She walked slowly, with her black lab beside her, a pretty young woman in denim cutoffs, fraying at the hem, and a simple white tank top. She was barefoot, her toenails painted bright blue. She passed a group of teenage boys, smiled when they stopped their Frisbee game and just stared at her.

Once upon a time, she would have turned and started back the other way, uncomfortable being looked at. A side-effect of her marriage to Owen. How many times had he accused her of flirting with other men just because she was pretty enough to get looked at?

From the time she'd been a teenager, she'd turned heads. Some part of her, even back then, had marveled at the power she had over boys and grown men. It was the same power her mother had.

Her tall, willowy mother, long-legged and beautiful, with a riot of curly, chestnut-colored hair and a smile that could stop traffic.

How many times had she been told that she had inherited that beauty? She had the same oval face, the same fine nose, the same curls, though hers were sunshine blond. She wasn't tall like her mother had been, but slender and petite, as her grandmother had been. Her mother had very nearly been an Amazon at five-ten, whereas she stood at only five-three. Her father had nicknamed her Tinkerbelle for her small stature and her playful nature.

A sharp pang of grief pierced her then, made her heart ache suddenly as she remembered the night she had found out she'd lost them both to a sudden squall that had come up and capsized their boat, taking them away before they could even call for help.

But they had died as they lived. Together.

More than anything she wanted the marriage her parents had had. The friendship that had always shined bright beneath the great love they shared for one another.

Her childhood in South Carolina was as close as her photo albums, and as far as the other side of the world. She had lived and loved and learned on the sands of Myrtle Beach. She had grown up watching her parents love each other, longed to have a love of her own.

How foolish to have been taken in by the golden-boy charm of Owen Parsons.

A neurosurgeon on vacation from his hectic schedule at MUSC in Charleston, she'd been swept up instantly by his attention, by the intensity of his feelings for her.

She had thought his possessiveness sweet, his all-consuming need for her flattering. The fact that he had money had not really mattered to her. Her parents ran a successful bed and breakfast, plus a restaurant, and she had always had more than enough of the things she needed, or wanted.

Still, Owen had dazzled her with romantic dinners in some of Charleston's most expensive restaurants. He'd given her lavish gifts, lots of jewelry and pretty little trinkets he picked up here and there.

By the time she graduated from Coastal Carolina University with a degree in art, Owen had asked her to marry him. Charleston was only a two hour drive from Myrtle and he had been making it frequently, courting and romancing her.

He was older, already thirty when she was twenty-two, and he had seemed so nice, so attentive and caring. Her parents had liked him, her grandparents had liked him. She had been girlishly in love with him.

And within a year, she had learned to fear him.

Finn bumped her leg with his nose, brought her back from her thoughts. She shook off the past, tossed the tennis ball she held in a wide arc for him to chase.

Her marriage to Owen was history. In fact, it had been for nearly three years. It still shamed her, how long she had stayed with him, afraid to leave, afraid to make waves. Afraid of what he would do to her.

Her parents had not known how things were between her and Owen. They had seen nothing but the cheerful, happy veneer she had put on. Oh yes, she'd been adept at covering her emotions just as she covered the bruises. For almost five years she had lived in fear of her husband until finally she'd come face to face with her own desperation and realized how close to the edge of madness she had come.

It took every ounce of her courage, every bit of her will, to pack her things and walk out.

Owen had reacted to her leaving him just as she had expected, and then again, not as she had expected. At first he had been enraged, angrily shouting at her over the phone, then showing up at her parents' house, where she had sought refuge. Only the threat of being arrested had calmed him down, made him leave her be.

The divorce proceedings had been easy enough, as Owen had no grounds to contest anything. They had no children and she wasn't asking him for any support. She just wanted out.

And that was when things had changed. When Owen had suddenly become so calm, like a shark just before it goes on the attack. That was when the phone calls had started. The silence on the other end that let her know he was always there.

She got a restraining order to keep him away. He countered by following her around every weekend, always making sure to keep the appropriate distance between then, but nevertheless he had been _there_.

He stalked her mercilessly, always keeping within the boundaries of the law, and her father had nearly popped a vein arguing with the Chief of Police about keeping Owen away from her.

There was nothing they could do, the Chief told him, as long as Owen obeyed the order and stayed the appropriate distance away. She had finally gone back to court and asked the judge if he could order Owen to stay at least one mile away from her and her home, but that was deemed too restrictive of his rights.

_His_ rights, she thought now. As though _hers_ didn't matter.

Well, she had shown him. Finally.

Her parents' death, tragic as it had been, had given her a freedom she had never imagined. They each had two million dollars in life insurance, a more than adequate safety net that would have allowed her to keep the businesses running and pay anything that was owed on their loans. There was also what was left in their accounts, plus the value of both the bed and breakfast and the restaurant. All told, the sum of her bank accounts had grown by leaps and bounds in the past couple of years, as she settled her parents' affairs. She had sold everything; the B&B, the restaurant, even her childhood home.

She had been driven by sheer necessity to leave her southern home behind and move somewhere far, far from Owen's prying eyes and unending pursuit.

Shayla turned back toward home now, whistling for Finn. He came on the run, the tennis ball still clamped firmly in his mouth.

Home was still the shore, but a northern one now, rather than a southern one. Instead of saw palmettos and oleanders, the landscape was dotted by beachheather, bayberry, and an assortment of trees that were stunted and pruned by the salt-laden winds. Northern holly and beach plum thrived, as did sassafras and small, assorted pines.

She had already spent her first winter on the island and it had been more brutal than she had expected, with icy winds and snowstorms that had left the island buried beneath a blanket of white.

She had found herself loving the stark cold of winter, though it had begun to wear on her sometime in early February. She had been more than glad to see the spring come, and now the summer.

Her feet splashed in the tepid water of the Atlantic as she walked westward, toward her house. It was the last house before the state park began, at the edge of Kismet, the western-most village on Fire Island.

The house was a typical beach dwelling, situated on pilings that would allow water to flow underneath in the event of a storm that sent the ocean surging over the island.

She had four bedrooms, two that faced the sea, two that faced the bay, less than half a mile on the other side of the island. Her living space was more than enough for her with a large, eat-in kitchen connected to a spacious family room. There was a small living room to the right of the front door, which she had turned into a home office, a small dining room that fed into the kitchen through a narrow butler's pantry, and a sunroom off the other end of the family room, with windows on three sides, that she used as a studio.

Providentially, the house had been built with a huge mudroom just off the sunroom, with stairs going down to an outer door that opened into the carport beneath the house. The room was large enough to accommodate not only a good-sized washer and dryer, but her large kiln as well. The moment she had walked into the house, seen the rooms, the layout, gotten the feel of it, she had known it was meant to be hers.

She had been drawn to Fire Island because of the remoteness of it, or at least, the feeling of remoteness. It was only a forty-five minute drive to New York City from Bay Shore, where she kept her car parked, as there were no cars allowed on the island unless special permission was granted. Visitors and residents parked on the mainland and ferried over, or came by private boat.

She had a golf cart that she used to get around if she was going to have to carry anything heavy, and she had a bike, but mostly she walked. It wasn't that far to anything she needed, and even if she wanted the nightlife and noise of Ocean Beach, that was only a three-mile walk.

It was perfect in every way. And it was hundreds of miles from Owen.

With her parents and grandparents gone, she had no family left in Myrtle Beach. Her Uncle Jimmy lived down in Beaufort, where his law practice thrived. He had wanted her to move there, to be closer to him and Stacy, but Beaufort was only an hour and a half from Charleston. Much too close to Owen.

The sun was still blazing bright, the heat of the day still potent, though the breeze that whispered over her skin carried some relief. Still, it wasn't nearly as hot as late July in Myrtle Beach had been.

Here, the humidity was up, but not stifling, and she smiled at a couple strolling by, stopping just for a moment so the woman could coo over Finn and pet his silky black head. They moved on then, and she turned toward home, walking away from the water.

She'd settled in easily among the hardy locals and the beach-loving weekenders who came out from the city to fill the ferries that moved back and forth across the bay every fifteen minutes.

People knew her now, like Randy and Maureen, who owned a restaurant over in Ocean Beach, and Lee and Leslie, who owned The Out, just off the Kismet docks. Brenda Conroy tended bar and waited tables at The Out, and she had become someone Shayla could call a friend in short order.

There were scores of others who had been taken in by her southern ways and her smile, including Gene and Luanne, who owned the local market, and old Pete Dougherty, resident curmudgeon and retired ferryboat captain. Then there was Maggie Monroe, who ran the art gallery in Ocean Beach and who had talked Shayla into letting her represent her.

She was in her forties, and an admitted beach lover who had traded her glamorous life as a Manhattan gallery owner and agent for the quiet life of Fire Island. Of course, she'd set up a gallery there, too, as art was another of her life's passions, and in her Shayla had found yet another friend.

And though she felt settled and at ease in her new home, her new life, she couldn't shake the sense that she was waiting for something. Almost as if there was a secret gift hidden somewhere on the island with her name on it and she just hadn't found it yet.

She glanced back to make sure Finn was still following behind her and hadn't run off to chase the seagulls again. Still a puppy, though he was a year old now. In dog years, he wasn't even an adolescent yet.

She'd be getting new neighbors that day, too, for the next three weeks. She was already thanking God that those college kids had moved on and now it was Shelly Martin and her husband that would be arriving that afternoon with their toddler son.

She had a loaf of apple bread ready to take over to them, and she was already taken with the little towheaded boy named Toby, whom Shelly had had with her the day she had been there in the spring to look at the house before they put the rental deposit down.

She already liked Shelly, too. A tall, pretty blond with a boisterous laugh and friendly personality that didn't quite fit in with the image of the grumpy New Yorker; an image Shayla was beginning to understand was a bit exaggerated. The day they had met, Shelly had shown Shayla a family picture of her and a bespectacled man with brown hair and a face that wasn't classically handsome, but somehow managed to be appealing. The man was her husband Lewis, who owned his own car repair shop and could work on almost any car out there, something that Shelly had told her with pride. Shelly owned her own business as well, a gift shop in Brooklyn, and she had already professed an interest in looking at Shayla's work to see if she might sell some of it in her shop.

As Shayla strolled up the beach, toward home, she spied a man standing on the deck of the house beside hers, and it wasn't Lewis. Where Lewis was lanky, this man was built like a brawler, or a football player. She registered the considerable height, the way he stood, his feet planted at shoulder-width, his hands jammed in his pockets.

A handsome face, she saw as she got a little closer, and dark, wavy hair that looked to be shot with gray here and there. The close-clipped beard he was sporting made him look a little like a rugged cowboy, and the jeans and black t-shirt he wore only added to that look.

Odd how he made her feel as she got closer still. She sensed a deep loneliness hovering about him. It reached out with ethereal hands that whispered over her skin, drawing out goose bumps as she thought suddenly that he looked very much like the tragic hero in a play he wasn't aware he was starring in.

She wasn't sure if he saw her and she thought about lifting a hand to wave at him, maybe call out and ask him if he was a friend of Lewis and Shelly's, but then Finn came on the run, darting around her in a wide circle. He jumped and pawed at her, wanting more playtime, and she laughed at him as she turned to toss the tennis ball back over the beach so he could chase it one more time.

It was that laugh that caught Bobby's attention, had him focusing on the source of it. His eyes took in the slight figure of a woman as she dashed back over the dune swale and chased the big black dog.

Blond curls and a laugh that tinkled like bells. Tiny, slender legs that moved fast as lightning as she ran after the dog, then caught up with it and did a wild dance in the surf, her arms lifted high as the dog pranced around her legs.

In a few moments, she was patting the dog's head, urging him back toward the house with words he couldn't make out, but the sound of her voice rolled sweet on the air.

She came back through the dune swale, pushed open the waist high gate of the picket fence that surrounded the back yard next door, then bounded up the stairs to the deck and disappeared inside with the black dog following close behind.

He was still standing there, his eyes turned back to the sea, when he heard Lewis and Shelly talking in the kitchen beyond the screen door. Then came the happy giggles of their fifteen-month-old son Toby as he ran through the house, apparently bent on some toddler adventure of eluding his parents as they chased him and laughed.

What the hell was he thinking, spending three weeks in a beach house with Lewis and his happy little family?

The screen door slid open with the gritty sound of sand in the track. Instead of turning, he kept his eyes on the horizon, not really sure what he was looking at, but not really wanting to take in the warm, family scene behind him at the moment.

Not when he so desperately wanted one of his own. Not when he couldn't have it. Would never have it.

At relationships, he struck out. He never used to care, told himself even now that he didn't care. But he was just lying to himself. Lying to cover up the pain of the reality.

Dr. Olivet had plenty of theories as to why he wasn't good at making relationships work, the least of which being his fear of true intimacy that would require him to open his heart and truly give himself away. Another of the doctor's ubiquitous theories was that he was under the impression that there was something inherently wrong with him, and therefore he wasn't loveable.

He had considered them both, along with some others, and decided that she might have a point, but he wasn't going to dwell overmuch on any of them. He was resigned to his fate and he had all but given himself over to the idea that he would always be alone.

She had also suggested that he keep a journal. After a good deal of thought, and a lot of excuses as to why it wouldn't do any good, he had tentatively started one on his laptop, but so far, most of what had come out of him was half-hearted at best.

And after a six month suspension, during which time he had had to see Olivet on a regular basis, he decided that he had shaken all the skeletons from the family closet that he could deal with at the moment. It was time to let well enough alone.

She had given him that gentle, knowing look and told him to call her if he wanted to talk. He had her card tucked away, but he never called her. He wanted to let those sleeping dogs lie.

Lewis cleared his throat softly, stepped up beside Bobby and handed him a bottle of Beck's. "So…you want to tell me what's so interesting way out there?" he asked.

Bobby took a swallow of beer, shrugged slightly. "Just staring."

"Look, Bobby…" Lewis shook his head. "I'm not going to give you the whole 'I'm worried about you' speech. But I am."

"Yeah." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I'm alright. I just…you know…there's just been so much happening. It takes some time to digest it all."

Lewis nodded silently, stood beside his oldest, closest friend, and wished he knew what the hell to say to help him. Bad enough he'd lost his mother to cancer the year before. He'd also found out that he was the product of an affair his mother had had while she was married to the man he had always thought was his father. To top off the Goren family drama, the man whom she had an affair with went on to become a killer and landed on death row.

Then there had been that undercover debacle at Tates Corrections that had landed Bobby on suspension for going unauthorized into the prison because his nephew had told him that inmates were being abused and tortured. Said nephew was now missing, having escaped the prison on his own by faking an attack of appendicitis.

And Bobby's brother Frank, the boy's father, had been murdered barely five weeks earlier. A murder that had been set in motion by Declan Gage, the man who had mentored Bobby as a criminal profiler; a man who claimed to think of him as the son he never had. Declan had used a woman who was a multiple murderess who had eluded his friend for years as the instrument of execution, then killed her himself.

All this, Declan had said, was to set Bobby free from the baggage of the past and allow him to start fresh, without the dead weight to drag him down.

It was a Shakespearean tragedy of the most dramatic proportions and as soon as he had the whole story, he'd been more convinced than ever that coming out to the island with him and Shelly would be the best thing for Bobby.

Three weeks on Fire Island with no cases to worry about, and no puzzles to figure out. Three weeks away from the city with its crimes and debauchery that kept Bobby's life occupied with the dregs of society on a daily basis.

As a detective, his friend was a natural. He'd made his bones on the beat, just like all of NYPD's cops, and graduated to Brooklyn Narcotics within two years. He'd run three undercover operations and taken down twenty-seven big-time drug dealers before being assigned to Major Case as a Detective First Grade.

Things to be proud of, to be sure, but Bobby had made the job, and his mother, his whole life. Now his mother was gone, and the job wasn't filling the void. So Lewis had a plan. Okay, it had been Shelly's brainstorm, but he'd run with it, hadn't he?

Maybe it was juvenile and a little crazy, but he figured if he worked at it from the right angle, he could nudge Bobby in the right direction. And she lived in the house next door.

He'd confess to being a romantic at heart, and so when Shelly had brought up the idea of inviting Bobby along and mentioned the friendly, pretty blond named Shayla she had met the day she had looked at the house, he'd gone along wholeheartedly. Shelly had the gift of gab needed to run a retail gift shop and she and Shayla had ended up sharing lunch and whiling away half the afternoon discussing any number of subjects. Apparently, Shayla had never met a stranger either.

The two of them had been trading phone calls for weeks now, and Shelly was already talking about selling some of Shayla's work in her shop.

Now he just hoped it wasn't a foolish idea. More than that, he hoped a little flirtation with a pretty woman would serve to bring his friend back to life.

If Bobby had even an inkling of what Lewis and Shelly were trying to do, he'd have walked straight back to the ferry dock and taken the first boat off the island.

Because he didn't, and because he himself knew he needed a break from the daily grind of police work, not to mention the upheaval in his life of late, he decided to try and relax a little bit.

And then he heard that tinkling laugh again, this time coming from inside the house. Shelly's voice answered it and a moment later the screen door slid open and he heard Shelly saying, "Lew, this is Shayla Landry, from next door. You remember me telling you about her?"

He and Lewis turned around at the same time and while his friend stepped forward and held out a hand, he just stood and stared, caught for a moment in a sort of stunned, suspended animation.

She still wore the same cutoffs and tank top she'd had on earlier, and as he was well used to taking in details quickly, he registered the blond curls that framed a pretty face, the cupid's bow mouth and finely sculpted nose that turned up just the slightest bit at the tip.

She was little, no more than five-three, with soft curves and slender limbs, and toenails that were painted an eye-popping shade of electric blue.

From the South, he noted, as her voice flowed out like warm honey. He vaguely heard Shelly introducing her to him and it was more of a reflex when he held out his free hand. And then he got a look at her eyes.

Oh, God…her eyes. They were so blue. Stunning pools of cobalt with a fire burning bright beneath them. He wasn't sure what was happening inside of him. He felt suddenly lost in their depths and faintly dizzy.

"So…you're renting next door?" he found himself asking, surprised to find that his voice still worked.

"Not renting, no." Shayla left her hand in his for a moment, looking up into his eyes. Her heart took an instant spin.

_You_, she thought. _Finally, it's you_.

Even as the thought flashed, then faded, she was feeling off balance, but she managed to smile at him. "I live here year round," she said while her heart spun and a flock of butterflies took wing in her stomach.

Bobby smiled back at her. Her hand was so small in his, and warm. He squeezed it once before he let go, took refuge in silence for a moment so he could gather his wits about him. And then Toby came chortling from the house, with that black dog close at his heels and Cindy, Shelly's fourteen-year-old niece, chasing them both, her long brown ponytail swinging behind her.

Shayla laughed, reached down and scooped the little boy into her arms. "Well now, sugar, I see you've met Finn."

She swayed as women were apt to do while holding a small child, and almost looked like a child herself, though he guessed she was near thirty, maybe a little younger.

"Finn?" He leaned down to scratch the dog's head. "After the great Celtic warrior?"

"Yep." Shayla settled Toby onto her hip while he giggled and twirled his tiny fingers in her hair. "You a fan of Irish legends?"

"He's a walking encyclopedia," Lewis joked and gave him a friendly slap. "He's got enough books to start his own library."

"So do I," she confessed. "Mama used to tell me I needed a whole house, just for my books."

"Books!" Toby cried.

Shayla laughed. "Shelly, I'll tell you again, he's the cutest little thing!" She tweaked Toby's nose and had him giggling again. "And so smart, too. Aren't you little man?"

"Smart!" Toby agreed.

Shayla laughed again and stooped to set him down, then clucked at Finn. "Now mind your manners, Finn, or I'll send you home." She rubbed her hand over his head. "See, Toby? Just like this."

Bobby stood back, silently watching as Shayla made the dog sit still so Toby could pet him without being knocked over. She chatted with Shelly about her shop and he found himself losing the words and just letting the sound of her voice flow over him.

It was a strong voice, rich with the sound of her southern home, and then it would turn all soft and sweet when she talked to Toby.

He came out of his little reverie when he heard Shelly insist that Shayla have dinner with them that evening. They had planned to do burgers on the grill and he barely heard Shayla say she'd be glad to come, and bring her homemade macaroni salad with her. He was too busy wondering at the look that passed between Lewis and his wife. He knit his brows together, realizing just what his friends were about.

He managed to give Shayla a nod and a half-smile as she took Finn and headed back to her house. She said she'd be back around six and he watched her go, frowning now.

"What are you doing?" he asked as he turned and looked at Lewis.

"What?"

"Don't give me 'what'. You know 'what'." He shook his head. "You two…I know what you're up to. And if there's anything I don't need, it's another complication in my life."

"A little flirtation never hurt anyone." Lewis shot his friend a grin, but he could clearly see that it wasn't going over well. "Look man, Shelly met her back in April and the two of them talked for like, three hours or something. She's an artist and Shelly's thinking about selling some of her stuff at the shop. And she's beautiful. For Pete's sake, man! You can't tell me you didn't notice that."

"I noticed." Bobby took a long swallow of beer, set the bottle down on the deck rail. "She's young, too. She looks like a little surfer girl with those blond curls and big blue eyes."

"She is. A surfer, I mean," Lewis added. "She told Shelly she still likes to catch waves now and then, but she was really into it when she was younger. And she's not a kid, you know. She's thirty-two."

"Yeah." And what would she want with a soon-to-be forty-seven-year-old cop who'd all but given up on himself? "Just…" He sighed. "What the hell…never mind."

Lewis gave him a light shoulder slap. "Give it a shot, why don't you?" he asked. "She's friendly, gorgeous, and she was definitely checking you out."

"She was not." Bobby gave him a mild shove. "You're seeing things. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly in the best shape these days."

"Hell, neither am I."

"Lew…" Bobby sent him an exasperated grin. His friend wasn't giving in. He could see it. "Oh for Pete's sake. If it'll get you off my back, I'll think about it."

"Thank God," Shelly said from the kitchen doorway. "Now that that's settled, will the two of you see what you can do about getting that grill straight?"

"Sure thing, sweetie." Lewis sent Bobby an even wider grin. "And she was too checking you out."

"Shut up." But he was smiling.

He could almost feel human again when he was around Lewis. The time when they hadn't kept in close touch had melted away the moment he was around him again and it was just like it had always been.

They'd known each other since grade school and with Lewis he could just be himself. It was something he had learned to appreciate in recent weeks, ever since Frank's murder.

Because the clouds in his mind threatened, he pushed thoughts of his brother aside and focused on the task at hand.

Even so, he couldn't quite get the image of Shayla out of his head. Tanned and pretty, with a smattering of freckles across her forehead and eyes like blue fire.

He was stirred, in ways that were only just now lumbering to life after a long, deep sleep. The physical feelings he could handle…sort of. But those stirrings deep in his heart were another matter altogether.

Frustrated that he couldn't stop thinking about a woman he barely knew, he busied himself with the grill rack, pulling it out and then setting it on the deck to be hosed off.

And yet…he found himself turning often to glance over at the neighboring house, thinking hard about what Lewis had said.

_A little flirtation never hurt anyone._

_

* * *

_

The music had her dancing, as it always did. She'd docked her iPod in the stereo system in her bedroom and hit her dance playlist, and now Lady Gaga was belting out "Just Dance" and that was exactly what Shayla was doing as she got dressed after her shower.

Later that evening, once it got dark and the party hour had come, she was going to head over to The Out for a little fun and dancing. During the day and early evening, it was one of the best restaurants on this end of the island. At ten-thirty on Fridays and Saturdays, there was a DJ who came to spin the best dance hits from the past thirty years and most of the tables were moved back to make room for the crowds of vacationers and locals that jammed the floor and partied the night away.

She'd ask Shelly and Lewis to come along. And Bobby. She would definitely invite him to come, too.

Her stomach did a wild tumble just thinking about him. When she'd looked into his eyes, her stomach had whirled, her heart had spun, and she'd felt like she was riding a wild, twisting roller coaster.

_You. Finally it's you._

Even now, as she put on some makeup and fluffed her curls, her heart was racing, her breathing just a little unsteady. She danced in a circle, her eyeliner pencil in hand, and felt like a schoolgirl getting ready for the big dance.

He was the one. She knew – just absolutely _knew_ – he was the one she had been waiting her whole life for. And he'd already stolen her heart with those beautiful, sad eyes of his.

As for the rest of him, well, tall, dark and handsome he certainly was! Now that she'd seen him up close, she knew he had to be well over six feet tall and he looked solid enough. A little extra around the middle maybe, but he carried it well. And there was just something about those big, long arms of his that she loved, not to mention his big, capable hands.

She imagined for a moment what those powerful arms would feel like wrapped around her and felt the heat flush her face. And then she wondered what that big hunk of a man was going to do when she flirted with him.

The laugh tinkled out as she lined her eyes expertly, then applied some mascara. It had been years since she'd felt like flirting with anyone. Since she'd felt like she could.

It was a nice feeling.

She left Finn at home this time, carried the bowl with the macaroni salad in the crook of her arm as she left her house by the back door and headed across the yard.

Bobby was standing next to the grill, with Lewis beside him, and she saw that he had pulled on a rust colored shirt over the black t-shirt, the long sleeves rolled back to his elbows. Her stomach did a sweet little tumble.

He and Lewis were now leaning over the grill, talking about the placement of the charcoal brickets, which had her giggling as she climbed the steps. Her father and her uncle had often had that very same discussion.

"Well if this ain't a picture," she chuckled. "The two of you arranging charcoal like a couple of masons laying a foundation. Is it really such an exact science?"

Because his tongue had suddenly tangled into a knot, Bobby could only manage to swivel his head around and stare at her. It was Lewis who answered, and shot her a good-natured grin.

"Sure it is. If you don't set them up just right, they won't burn evenly."

Shayla laughed, shook her head. "Well then, I'll leave you to your manly duties," she said and sent Bobby a smile as she headed for the screen door and slid it open, stepped inside.

Bobby was still staring after her, and now he felt like an idiot. But what the hell was he supposed to do when she surprised him like that, turning up in snug, faded jeans and a bright pink shirt, left unbuttoned to reveal the black tank top beneath it and tied sassily at the waist.

She was wearing makeup, and that was sassy, too. Shadow on her lids that glittered like pink diamonds and those gorgeous eyes lined in a way that had drawn him right into their depths with dizzying efficiency. Even while he stood thinking about how beautiful she had looked, she was leaning back out the kitchen door.

"Either one of y'all want another beer?"

"Sure." Was that him? Did he finally manage to make his voice work? "Thanks."

"Me, too," Lewis said. "Since you're offering."

Shayla smiled at him, pulled back inside. She went to the fridge, pulled out two bottles of Beck's, and spotted the Seagram's wine coolers on the door. "Fuzzy Naval," she said and turned to grin at Shelly. "My favorite flavor. You want one?"

"Absolutely." Shelly turned from the plate of burgers she had just finished making, washed the meat off her hands. "Cindy's keeping Toby busy while we cook, otherwise he'll be running around way too close to the grill."

Shayla handed her a wine cooler and one of the beers. "So…before I go back out there and make a fool out of myself…is Bobby seeing anyone?"

"Not at all," Shelly answered, delighted that Shayla was interested. "Go for it."

"You bet." Shayla grinned, took the other beer and went back outside with Shelly following her.

The radio was on now, tuned to a popular classic rock station. She handed Bobby the bottle of beer, smiled up at him as the Fabulous Thunderbirds launched into "Tuff Enuff".

"Y'all got those things laid out just right now?" she asked.

"More or less."

Her eyes were twinkling and he found himself staring at her mouth. A pretty mouth that was slicked with raspberry-colored lipstick. He could imagine leaning down and just touching it with his, could almost feel the softness of her lips, could almost taste them. She would taste sweet, he thought. Like candy.

She was still smiling at him as she backed up a little, leaned against the wooden rail of the deck, keeping time to the song on the radio by tapping her foot. Pretty feet, clad in flip-flops, with toenails now painted bright pink.

He was more than shocked to find himself suddenly thinking about what it would be like to have his arms around her, to have his hands on her so that he could stroke them along all those softly rounded curves, discover the secrets that lay beneath her clothes. Her skin would be warm, he imagined, and would taste as sweet as her lips.

He imagined a darkened bedroom, her skin flushed, her body soft and warm beneath his as she sighed…

"Oh…Jimmy Buffet," she exclaimed suddenly. "It wouldn't be summer without him."

It took him a full ten seconds to tune into the song on the radio, and the sound of the conversation that had sprung up around him while he was busy fantasizing about her.

"Don't tell me you're a Parrotthead?" Lewis grinned at her.

"'Course I am, honey. You don't grow up on the beach and not listen to Jimmy Buffet." She took a sip of her drink, swirled the sweet liquid over her tongue before she swallowed it. "Couple of years back, he was in town to open one of his restaurants and I had the pleasure of meeting him and knocking back a couple, just for the sake of saying I had a drink with the king of summer."

"Where are you from?" Bobby finally found his voice again, and hoped the heat he felt in his face didn't actually show.

"South Carolina." She turned her head to look at him, saw the faintest hint of a blush climbing his neck. "I grew up in Myrtle Beach, then lived in Charleston with my ex-husband for a few years. When I left him, I moved back home. My parents owned a B&B and a restaurant, and I helped out when they needed it while I put my poor, shattered life back together."

She said it with a grin and a touch of humor. She could do that now. Humor had helped her to put the past behind her and try to forget the pain and fear of those years with Owen.

"Do they still live in Myrtle Beach?" Lewis wanted to know and missed the look his wife sent him.

Shayla shook her head wistfully. "No…they died," she said softly.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She smiled, took another sip from her bottle. "It's been a little over two years now. They got caught in a squall while they were out sailing one evening. Once I had their affairs settled, I decided to sell the house, the businesses, and move up here."

"Wow." Bobby gave a low whistle. "Just like that? You pulled up stakes and moved hundreds of miles from home? Pretty adventurous."

"Oh, I am," she said. "Most definitely. But I also wanted to put some distance between me and my ex. He's…got issues."

He nodded. She didn't have to spell it out. "So, what made you pick Fire Island?"

"A lot of things. The remote feeling, for one, as I wanted that distance I mentioned. And the pace of the island…nice and slow…reminds me of home."

She grinned, sauntered over to grab a tortilla chip from the bowl Shelly brought out and set on the table. She dipped it into the salsa and took a bite.

"Y'all got no concept of taking things slow up here," she went on. "Rushing around like a bunch of chickens with your heads cut off, bumping into each other. I sure do love the fun of the city, but you'll never catch me living there. I'd never be able to stand it."

Picturing her as she'd been that afternoon, in her cutoffs and tank top, running barefoot on the beach with Finn, Bobby understood that perfectly.

With the radio playing in the background, on a Top 40 station now, Shayla helped Shelly pull out paper plates and plastic utensils, set out the condiments and the hamburger buns.

She sang along with Nickleback as she set the bowl of macaroni salad out, then turned around just as Toby came hurtling out of the house, giggling happily. Expecting to find Cindy behind him, she was surprised to see that it was Bobby chasing him. He caught him with those powerful looking arms and swung him high into the air, had him squealing with laughter.

She watched them for a moment, touched by the way he looked, so big and manly, cradling the little boy on one shoulder as he went down into the small yard where he set him down and lightly kicked a small soccer ball toward him, which Toby promptly chased after and attempted to kick back.

"You'd think a guy who's so good with kids would have some, wouldn't you?" Shelly said in a low voice as she stepped up beside Shayla.

"Yeah. Why doesn't he?"

"He's never been married. Stays away from serious relationships most of the time."

"He's lonely," Shayla said softly.

"Yes." Shelly nodded. "He is. He lost his mom to cancer last year, and his brother was killed just over a month ago; Lew told me that his father's been dead for about ten years. As far as I know, he doesn't really have anyone left, aside from some aunts and uncles that he doesn't seem to be very close to, for whatever reason."

"That aching loneliness," Shayla murmured. "It makes you want to cuddle him, soothe away the hurt." And then she shook her head. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm a hopeless romantic. Comes down through my mother's Irish blood."

"I'm thinking Bobby could use a little romance in his life," Shelly told her. "He's been walking through life like a dead man for way too long. It's time he woke up."

Shayla couldn't answer her because Bobby was headed toward the stairs to retrieve the ball that Toby had managed to kick sideways. He glanced up at her and she smiled at him. The look that crossed his face was an odd mixture of wistfulness and pleasure.

"You want some company there, sugar?" she asked as she walked down the stairs.

"Depends," he found himself saying. "You feel like chasing this ball around?"

"Sure." She took it from him with a friendly wink, then set it on the ground. "Okay, Toby," she called out. "You ready?"

"Ball!" Toby shouted.

Lewis walked out of the house with the plate of raw burgers, ready to put them on the grill, and stood for a long moment watching Shayla and Bobby playing with his son. They spent a lot of time chasing after the ball that Toby kicked wildly in all directions, and he was glad to see Bobby looking almost happy. He was even laughing, which was more than he'd done in weeks.

"They look good together," Shelly said quietly as she took the plate Lewis handed her. "She's interested in him, too. She asked me if he was seeing anyone."

"Damn, we're good." Lewis hooked his arm around his wife's shoulders and gave her a lip-smacking kiss. "She's going over to The Out tonight for some dancing. She mentioned it earlier. Think we can convince him to go along?"

Shelly watched Bobby toss the ball to Shayla, saw the smile that spread across his face. "I don't think that's going to be a problem," she said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It wasn't a problem. Not at all. Toby had been put to bed long since, Cindy was settled in front of the TV with her laptop and cell phone, chatting with her friends, and the four of them headed down Lighthouse Walk, toward the bay, where The Out sat, near the docks.

Shayla had exchanged her flip-flops for platform sandals that added nearly four inches to her height. She walked along beside Bobby and knew that Shelly and Lewis were hanging back on purpose.

For his part, Bobby was feeling more than a little off balance. She'd been playful all evening. He might be out of practice, but he knew when a woman was flirting with him and Shayla was making it more than clear that she was interested.

Problem was, he knew that flirting back meant a lot more than a quick tumble. She was cheerfully flirtatious, but there was an undercurrent of tenderness that he knew came straight from her heart.

He had the distinct feeling that she was on the verge of falling for him, if she hadn't already, and he knew he'd only break her heart. It was what he did best, or so it seemed.

Then there was the little problem he was having with his hormones. And the fact that he couldn't seem to control the tugging ache in his own heart, so it wasn't only hers on the chopping block here, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that.

Okay, he _was_ sure. He was terrified.

"So…what kind of music do they play?" he asked, tried to keep things light despite the sense he had that they had already crossed some invisible line, on a collision course with destiny.

"Little bit of this, little bit of that." Shayla wanted in the worst way to hold his hand, but she wasn't sure about making a move, so she didn't. "From disco to techno, and everything in between. Depends on the mood and the requests. I can tell you this…you won't be bored."

She was right about that. The music spilled out of the open doors on the outside deck, then out of the front door as they walked in. The bar was lined with people, some sitting on the stools chatting, some standing up, money in hand, waiting for their drinks. The tables had been moved back and some had been taken out of the main dining room completely, to make room for dancing.

People jammed together on the low stage just below the DJ booth, spilled over the floor, all the way to the edge of the carpeted area where some of the tables had been left to give patrons who weren't dancing a place to sit and enjoy the action.

The moment they walked in, Shayla was waving at people. The bouncer, built like a truck and tanned as a surfer, even on his bald head, leaned to give her a shoulder rub and a smile. The bartender, a tall, thin brunette, lifted a hand and shouted over the music as they neared the bar.

"Hey girl! Wondered if you'd be in tonight."

"I'm in," Shayla said. "Brought some friends, too." She glanced over at the DJ booth. "Looks like Tony's in good form tonight."

"Things are jumpin' in here tonight." Accustomed to doing more than one thing at a time, Brenda poured a shot of Grey Goose into a glass and splashed orange juice in with it, then handed it to the woman who was waiting for it while she surveyed the three people with Shayla. "First round is on the house," she said. "What'll ya have?"

Lewis and Bobby both got beers, but Shayla and Shelly went for the wine coolers again, laughing off Lewis' teasing about their "girly drinks".

"Well, we _are_ girls," Shayla laughed with a mock eye roll.

As usual, the beat was grabbing her, and she sat at a small round table with them for a while, tapping her feet, bouncing in the seat, before she finally finished her drink and hopped up.

"I can't stand it. Y'all want to dance?"

Shelly stood up with a grin. "I do. Lew's got clay feet until he gets a couple of beers in him." She blew her husband a kiss. "I'm going to start without you, sweetie."

Bobby sat watching the two of them as they threaded their way into the crowd. Shayla was laughing and tugging Shelly's arm until they were both on that stage, and he thought for a moment that the spinning lights were no match for the light that spun out of Shayla as she danced.

The music was some kind of techno-electronic fare with a synthesizer mixed in with the thumping bass. Shayla was riding on the music, her arms flung wide as she spun around, her hips moving like a belly dancer's.

"Wow!" Lewis was staring at her. "She's…"

"Amazing," Bobby finished.

"Yeah." He watched his wife laugh and shake her head, then mimic what Shayla was doing. "Looks like Shelly's catching on."

Bobby couldn't answer him. He was too busy watching Shayla. He'd never seen anyone dance like that. She was completely caught up in the music, her body flowing with it, her arms raised above her head as her hips rocked and swayed to the rhythm.

Three or four songs, and another beer later, Lewis was ready to give it a try. Bobby wasn't so sure, but Lewis gave him a nudge with his elbow. "Come on," he said. "We can look like idiots together."

"I think we're too old to dance to this," Bobby said.

"Speak for yourself," Lewis said with a grin as they pressed through the crowd. When he reached his wife, he grabbed her hands, looked at Shayla. "I'm cutting in."

"No problem," Shayla grinned, reached to take both of Bobby's hands as he stepped up beside her. "You and me, handsome."

"I don't know if I've had enough beer to try this yet."

She smiled sweetly at the hesitant look on his face. "Just roll with it, sugar," she told him. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain. You don't need the wizard to give you rhythm. You got it in you. Just let the music find it."

"Easier said than done."

"You're about to surprise yourself, honey." She squeezed his hands, liked the fact that he squeezed back. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Just close them." She liked his hands. They were big and strong, but gentle, and they were gripping hers lightly, as though afraid to hold too tightly. "Trust me, honey. Don't think. Close your eyes, feel the rhythm and just move."

She demonstrated, and the way she looked, the rapt joy on her face, shot straight through him like a lightning bolt, made his skin tingle. Her hands slid from his as she lifted her arms. Without meaning to, he let his skim down to rest on her hips.

The singer was female and she was encouraging everyone to "just dance". He closed his eyes, felt Shayla swinging her body closer to his, and the rocking motion of her hips traveled into his fingers and right up his arms. He was dimly aware of the fact that he was rocking and swaying with her, but there was a misty haze clouding his mind that he hardly recognized as desire.

Her sandals brought her higher, so that her chin was level with his shoulders, and just now her hands were resting there. He felt her fingertips skim lightly across the side of his neck and he opened his eyes, saw that hers were still closed. Without thinking, he dragged her closer so that her body was pressed against his as they rolled on the rhythm of the music.

Shayla's eyes popped open when she felt his arms close around her. He hadn't just caught the rhythm, she thought. The rhythm had caught _him_. Now that he'd caught _her_, they rode the pulsing wave of it together.

She was dizzy suddenly, lost in the depth of his eyes, that rich brown that seemed as deep and endless as the sea. Her arms circled his neck and her fingers danced into his hair. Soft, and rich. She toyed with the ends of it, then slid her hands slowly into it so that she could cup his head, nudge him closer.

The music was lifting her, spinning her, but it was Bobby who was carrying her away. Her breath was gone; just gone. He dipped his head closer to hers, hesitated, his mouth hovering barely an inch from hers.

It was she who closed the distance, she who leaped into the void and caught his mouth with her own.

A teasing nibble at first, and then her tongue slid along his lips and his hands fisted in her shirt. Teasing, playing, even as their bodies swung together, and for the first time in his life, he was helpless to stop what was happening inside of him.

He parted his lips, felt her slide into him, and then his whole world tipped over. She _did_ taste like candy; sweet and tangy. The flavor of her, mixed with the fruity malt she'd been drinking, sent his head spinning.

His hands slid up her back, into her hair. He cupped her head, changed the angle of the kiss, and dived into the deep with her.

Lost. She was just lost in him. In the sensation of that wonderful mouth that possessed hers with a fire that stunned her. _This_ was what he had inside of him, she thought dimly. And he didn't even realize it. Didn't know how much there was.

Never in her life had she been kissed like that. Her head was spinning so that she thought it might just lift right off her shoulders and sail away, to say nothing of the throbbing ache that was settling in the center of her, pulling long, liquid trembles from her belly.

Even while they kissed, their bodies were moving, rocking and swaying, pressed together now so that she felt what was happening to him, felt his heart thundering beneath her hand as she stroked it over his chest.

He was on the edge, as she was. She wondered how long it would be before they tumbled over it together.

A few feet away, Shelly's eyes widened and she nudged Lewis until he turned to look over his shoulder.

"Whoa!" His eyes as wide as hers, he turned back to grin at her. "Whoa," he said again.

One song bled into another. The beat was infectious, rolling through him, and Bobby thought for a moment that he must have left his body because he felt so absolutely weightless.

Shayla was holding on loosely, her arms hooked around his neck as she moved with him, and he found he couldn't let go of her. He needed to be close to her, needed the light she carried within her, that fire that burned so high and bright inside her.

He'd been frozen, numb, for so long. She was so warm, so filled with life, with passion, and it was scaring him. Scaring him because he'd been much too comfortable behind those walls of ice, and now they were melting.

Nothing could withstand the fire she carried.

And her eyes…they held his in a way that told him she wasn't afraid of what was happening between them. That she would open her arms, and her heart, and give him all.

He wanted it, and he was afraid to want it, to take it. Afraid that he'd ruin it. He always did, somehow. He was just never enough. Somehow he was never good enough, could never give enough, _be_ enough.

The music changed, slowed, and became the sensual rhythm of a ballad. Shayla kept her arms around his neck, watched his eyes, and saw the myriad emotions that swirled there.

When the sorrow showed itself, she moved closer to rub her cheek lightly against his. "Don't think," she said next to his ear so he could hear her. "Just go with it."

He closed his eyes, toyed with the idea of letting go, just this once. He wasn't sure he could do it. And then her fingers were stroking the back of his neck and he felt the door to his heart rattle.

The scent of her surrounded him, something fruity and sweet, like berries. For one, long lingering moment, he turned his face into her hair and held on.

Maybe it was the change in the music, from slow ballad to something with a thumping jungle beat, that pulled him back, made him think twice about letting her so close. Whatever it was, he eased back a little, looked into her eyes.

"I think…I need to get some air…"

He didn't expect her to nod, to step away and then take his hand, to follow him out onto the deck, where a few couples sat at the round iron tables, having drinks and chatting quietly while the music poured from the open doors.

Shayla could clearly see he was tied up in enough knots to keep her busy for awhile. She wanted to stroke, to soothe, to wrap her arms around him and hold him close. She wasn't sure how he'd take that just now, so she tugged on his hand, pulled him down the steps and through the gate, out into the parking lot.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Just over here a ways," she answered as she led him toward the docks.

She stopped near the end of the pier, boosted herself onto one of the thick pilings. "Air's fresher over here," she said lightly.

He took a slow breath, let the scent of the bay and the breeze fill his nose. "You're right."

The lights of the marina threw beams of white over the nearby water, but it was the full moon riding high overhead that illuminated the bay, made it seem to be glowing.

Shayla swung her feet idly, breathed deep. "Nothing like night in the summer," she said. "Of course, down south the air's a little thicker. Lays on you like molasses, and tastes just as sweet."

"You miss it," Bobby said as he moved to stand a little closer to the piling.

"Sure. It was my home for nearly thirty-one years." She smiled at him, wanted to reach out and take his hand again, but she held back. "But I'm happy here," she went on. "I made a life for myself here, made new friends, got a dog." Now she laughed. "And he's a fine mess, too. A year old and still just a big puppy. Do you have any pets?"

He shook his head. "I thought about getting a dog once, but with the hours I keep, it'd be difficult to deal with."

"Yeah, I suppose being a detective isn't always a nine-to-five kinda thing." When he lifted a brow curiously, she chuckled. "Shelly told me a little bit about you while you and Lewis were busy discussing how long to cook the burgers." She shook her head. "I don't know what it is about testosterone that turns everything into a contest."

"One of the mysteries of life," he said, and surprised himself by moving closer still.

Hadn't he wanted to get out of the club to get some air and put a little distance between them so he could gather himself together? And hadn't he thought his backing off would put _her_ off?

So much for that, he thought. Here she was, sitting there with that sweet smile on her face, her eyes twinkling in the lowlight, and suddenly all he wanted was to have his arms around her again.

Shayla looked up at the night sky, at the stars that twinkled. "I'm thinking I'll have to grab some time this week to watch the Perseids," she said. "They'll be peaking in a couple of weeks, but there are enough of them flying by even now to catch a good glimpse, if you go out on the beach late at night. After midnight's the best time."

She sighed, lifted her arm and pointed. "And there…all these years and I can still find Perseus and Andromeda." She traced the outline of them with her finger, leaning a little farther back as she did so. "When I was a little girl, I watched _Clash of the Titans_ on cable and my father took me out on the beach one night, to watch the Perseids, and showed me where they came from. There's too much light out here to see well enough, though."

And then, just at the center of her vision, flashed a quick streak of light. "Oh!" she exclaimed, flung her arm out again. "There went one!"

Bobby watched her teetering on the edge of the piling and realized she was leaning her head back much too far to keep her balance. He took two steps and closed the distance between them just as she gave a quick gasp and swayed backward. He had his arms around her in the blink of an eye and kept her from tumbling off the piling into the water.

"Easy there," he said. "You're not dressed for a midnight swim."

"Maybe not," she giggled. "But it would've been dang funny if I'd fallen in."

"Not if I had to jump in and fish you out."

"A little adventure like that'd probably do you good," she chuckled. "Besides, I wouldn't need rescuing. I swim like a fish." She leaned a little closer to him, lifted her hands to touch his face.

"Shayla…"

She brushed a thumb over his lips, gently shushed him. "You don't have to tell me all those things that are tumbling around in your head. All those reasons why you should back away and not let this happen."

She was too close. He couldn't get his breath. She had to let go of him, had to stop touching him.

If she let go of him, if she stopped touching him, he might well toss himself off the dock and go for that swim after all.

She watched his eyes, watched them soften as she brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, skimmed her fingertips over his beard. The loneliness was back, along with a numbing hopelessness that ripped at her heart.

"You're dying inside, Bobby," she said softly.

He shook his head, would have denied it but for the simple truth of her words. "Nothing to be done about that," he said, his voice thickened by sudden emotion.

"Sure there is." Another soft stroke, this one along his jaw, before she leaned closer and brushed her lips over his. "Just open your heart to life again."

"I can't." Even as he said it, his hands were sliding up her back, into her hair. He cupped her head, lowered his mouth onto hers, and felt his soul weeping for what he wanted and couldn't have. "Shayla…there's nothing left of me…"

She heard the despair in his voice, tasted the desperation in his kiss, could feel it in the way he crushed her to him, wrapped her closer still.

"Yes there is," she murmured as she put soft, tiny kisses on his cheeks, brushed her fingers through his hair. "There's plenty…right here." She put a hand over his heart, rubbed it in a slow circle. "You're walking blind, Bobby. Open your eyes. Take a look at what you're missing."

"Stop and smell the roses, is that it?" He quirked his lips into a smile, wanting to lighten the moment, steer the topic somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Shayla smiled at him, even as she framed his face with her hands. "No," she whispered. "Don't just smell them." She kissed his mouth lightly. "Wallow in them. Let the sweetness of them fill you until your heart swells and your feet want to dance. You have to open your heart to life if you want to live it."

He held onto her, his heart tugging, aching, crying out with what she was stirring inside of him. "It's too late," he murmured against her hair, wishing so much that it wasn't. "I can't do it anymore, Shayla."

"Oh, baby," she said softly. "It's not too late. It's never too late." She stroked his head gently. "You just need someone to love you."

"Don't…" He choked it out, pulled away from her. "Just…don't…"

God, he wanted to hold on! He wanted her in his arms. He wanted that fire, that light she carried.

And he was too afraid to reach out for it. Instead, he backed away from her.

"Bobby…"

"No." He held up his hands. "Just…I can't, Shayla. I just…I can't…"

He walked away, quickly, and she sat silently, her head tilted to one side, watching him.

So much pain, she thought. And a heart that had been bruised and battered by more than just the recent losses he'd suffered. Someone had hurt him, wounded him deeply. It seemed to her that the wounds were old ones, and they still stung him badly.

He needed to be loved, to feel his heart was safe, to feel secure. She understood that, understood him. He didn't have to say it; it was all over him. In his eyes, in the quiet cadence of pain that crept into his voice when he wasn't paying attention.

Over the past few hours, getting to know him had been like coming home, like looking into the mirror of her own heart. He didn't have to say it out loud. The silent scream inside of his heart reached her loud and clear. She knew that pain, knew it in the depths of her own soul.

And she'd found the mate to that soul. She knew it. Just as she knew that she'd already fallen in love with him. She'd tumbled the moment she'd looked into his eyes.

She slid off the piling, went back inside to tell Lewis and Shelly she was going to head home. And even as she walked in, she was scanning the crowd, but she knew Bobby wouldn't be there. He'd walked back to the house, she knew, probably to lock himself away again, rebuild the walls that had come crumbling down the moment they had kissed.

Lewis and Shelly were slow-dancing when she saw them, and she squeezed through the crowd, tapped Shelly on the shoulder.

"I'm heading out," she said.

Shelly looked at her curiously. "Where's Bobby?"

"Headed back to the house." She smiled sadly. "He's a little freaked out, I think. Things got a little intense between us."

Lewis turned to look at her seriously. "He's had a rough time," he said. "He closes up in his own defense. He doesn't mean anything by it. He just hates to feel vulnerable."

She nodded. "Oh yeah," she said. "He snapped that lid down tight. But don't think that'll deter me. He's something special." She gave Lewis a light pat on the shoulder. "I'll see y'all tomorrow."

She made her way back through the crowd, lifted a hand to Brenda on her way out, and then slid her sandals off so that she could walk more quickly along the street, which was dimly lit with yellowish-tinted lights that would illuminate the way at night without being too bright.

Bobby had closed up alright, but not before she had seen that hard, bright despair in his eyes. The desperate wanting of a man who knew he was dying and didn't know how to live anymore. And with every beat of her soft, romantic heart, Shayla wanted nothing more than to help him find his way back to life again.

The moment she let herself into the house, Finn came on the run, so she let him out the back door to pee. It was nearly two a.m. now and she wondered what Bobby was doing; if he'd gone to bed, or if maybe he was still up, thinking about what had begun between them.

When Finn came bounding back to the door, she had her answer, as Bobby was right behind him. She opened the door and quietly stepped back to let him in. The moment the door closed behind him, he reached out and wrapped her into a bone-crushing embrace.

He had intended to go to bed and instead had wound up sitting on the deck, thinking about her, about the things she'd said. And then he'd heard her voice when she let Finn out to run and he'd gotten up and crossed the yard like someone spellbound. He'd meant to apologize for leaving her so abruptly, but now he couldn't say a word.

His thoughts were jumbled and his throat ached with the lump that had formed there. Instead of speaking, he held onto her and hoped she understood that he was tied up in knots.

Shayla didn't speak either. There were no words needed when a touch was enough, and she stood holding onto him, felt him trembling as she rubbed his back lightly. His lips nuzzled at her cheek, moved to brush over her ear. She turned her head, lifted her mouth to his, and found herself drawn up into a long, sumptuous kiss.

So long…it had been so long since he'd been held, touched. And he hadn't known how deeply he craved that touch, until she'd held him.

It was her he wanted, needed. Just her.

His hands slid down her back, cupped beneath her hips and lifted her right off her feet. With his mouth fastened on hers, he hooked her legs around his waist, wallowed in the taste of her as her nimble little body curved into his and her arms circled his neck.

Shayla moaned softly as his tongue danced with hers, as the embers smoldering between them suddenly erupted into scorching flames of need. Her body was like a stoked furnace, burning for his touch.

Desperation was there, warring with the need. She could feel it in the way he trembled, in the way he kissed her, as though he couldn't take enough of her. She felt the need inside of him reach out and grab her, could almost feel the pain that was a jagged, throbbing scar on his heart.

Alone. He was so alone.

She stroked his hair, kept her mouth pressed to his, as he headed for the hallway that would take them to the stairs. He didn't think, couldn't think, about what might come after. Everything in him focused on the now.

When he hesitated at the top of the stairs, she whispered, "Left." and he turned and carried her into her bedroom. She was wrapped around him like a vine, her hands in his hair, her mouth fused with his.

Shayla was only dimly aware of what was happening as he eased her down onto her bed, leaned over to capture her mouth again. She was, however, acutely aware of that silent, desperate scream that leaped from his heart into hers and made her want to cry for the ache of what he carried inside of him.

"Shayla…" He whispered her name, his throat clogged with emotion. "I need you..."

She needed him, too.

She tugged his shirt free, began to unbutton it, and when he shrugged it off, she grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, lifted it over his head. Her hands went to his shoulders, those wonderfully broad shoulders, then slid down over his chest, through the fine, soft hair that grew there. They skimmed lightly down his belly, her fingertips just grazing the skin above the waistband of his jeans. Then back up again, slowly, to stroke those wonderful shoulders again.

She had never felt about anyone the way she did about him. It could have been days or months, weeks or years. She thought somehow she had always known him, had always loved him. She wrapped her arms around him, drew him down to her, her hands stroking his back. He was so solid and so warm. And her heart was so filled with him.

She wanted to give and give, spend herself until his grief was eased, until that desolate scream faded away into nothing. She held on, stroking, soothing, loving, as she murmured softly to him in the darkness.

"I love you," she whispered as her lips brushed over his. "I love you."

He shook his head, tried to deny her words, but they speared through him; a beautiful, blinding light through the dark, lonely corners of his heart. How could she? he thought, and then her mouth caught his again and he sank into the softness of her.

There was so much tenderness, so much warmth. It was making him dizzy.

He untied her shirt, slid it off of her, then lowered his mouth to her bared shoulders. Lovely and warm and soft. Everything about her was so soft. Her skin, her hands. Her heart.

He pulled the tank top over her head, trailed tiny kisses over the swell of her breasts. He heard her first gasp of pleasure as if through a haze as he scraped his thumb lightly over the tiny, sensitive point that rose up to poke against satin and lace.

He flipped open the front hook of her bra, tugged it away, and cupped her breasts in his palms, brushed his thumbs over her bared nipples. She let out a long, breathy moan that ended on a gasp as he lowered his head, caught one of her breasts in his mouth.

The first taste of her spurted through him like a geyser. She gave a soft cry and arched toward him, bringing their hips together and pulling a strangled moan from his throat as he slid one hand down her side, over her hip to stroke her thigh.

Her body was a mass of tangled needs, nerves tingling, aching for his touch. She needed him like she needed air. It overwhelmed her, that need, and she could see nothing but him, feel nothing but him.

He needed her to love him. She could feel his heart crying out to her, though he was afraid to open it to her. But she could taste that frantic need, that inconsolable desperation as she kissed him, as she wrapped her arms around him once again and drew him close.

They rolled over the bed, lips meeting, sighs mingling. He rolled her beneath him gently, unfastened her jeans, slid them off. The white satin panties veed enticingly over her hips. He hooked his fingers through them, slid them slowly down.

It was just as he'd imagined. Her body was warm and soft as she moved beneath his stroking hands, her breath coming in tiny little sighs as he brushed his fingers over those lovely curves.

Oh, those wonderful hands! Long, gentle fingers that were warm on her skin as they skimmed, teased. Her breath was clogging in her throat now as he slid his hands along her thighs. She ached, throbbed for his touch. Her body was molten, should have been glowing in the dark by her reckoning. And then he cupped her, slid his fingers into the heat of her, and sent her hurtling over the edge with barely a stroke.

She cried out, flinging her arms out helplessly to clutch at the sheets even as he took her up again. He put hot, open-mouthed kisses on her belly as he stroked her to peak and let her fly again. And while she was still reeling, he dipped his head and fastened his mouth on her, and her whole world blew apart.

Dizzy now with the taste of her, the need clawing at him, he tugged off his own jeans, slid out of his boxers while she lay trembling with the rippling shocks of her climax still rolling through her body.

When he knelt on the bed beside her, when he looked down at her, he could see her eyes shining in the silvery half-light. Was she crying?

"Shayla." He whispered her name, bent to brush his mouth over hers as he parted her legs gently. She opened willingly, wrapped herself around him as he slid into her.

_This_ was lovemaking, she thought. And she had never felt anything like it.

"Shayla." He whispered her name again, cradled her head in his hands and took her mouth tenderly as he brushed his fingers through her hair.

She could have wept with the joy of his body joining with hers.

"I love you," she murmured as her fingers danced through his hair. "Oh…I love you."

She cupped his head and brought his mouth back to hers. The ache in the center of her was building into something bigger, sweeter, than anything she had ever known. Her arms banded around him as she tumbled over the edge and cried out.

Even while she closed hotly around him, he was hurtling toward release. And when it came, he buried his face in her hair with a long, deep sigh and poured himself into her.

* * *

He lay sprawled on top of her, sure that he never wanted to move again. Her hands were making slow, lazy circles on his back and he never, ever wanted her to stop touching him.

He knew he should move, that he was too heavy for her, but she didn't seem to care. She was still trembling, her skin damp and flushed with the warmth of their lovemaking. She turned her face into his neck, brushing her lips over his skin, and he sighed with the exquisite tenderness of it.

He _had_ to move now. She was too close. It was too much.

Shayla felt the tension come back into his shoulders, felt him trying to pull the curtain, build the wall between them.

"Oh, honey," she murmured, seeking to soothe away the knots with gentle, loving strokes. "Who hurt you so much?"

Instead of answering her, he shifted, rolled away to lay on his back, stare up at the beams of moonlight that crossed the ceiling. Outside the windows, the ocean rolled onto the shore with a soft _whoosh_.

Shayla turned in the bed, found herself tangled in the sheets, and wondered what he was thinking. Did he think that this was just a one night thing? Did he think her words had been only that? That she hadn't meant them?

She wasn't in the habit of going to bed with men only hours after meeting them. In fact, Owen was the only other man she had ever been with.

When Bobby had stepped through the door and reached for her, she had gotten so lost in him, so wrapped up in the need that poured from his heart. And she knew that if she could go back, she would do it all over again.

No one had ever touched her the way he did, made her feel the way he did. She was positively glowing. She could feel the warmth and tenderness of his touch still humming through her. And it was beautiful.

She rolled onto her side, leaned up on her elbow and looked at him. His eyes were closed, but she could see the tiny twitch in his cheek that told her he was holding back, holding on, trying to gather himself back together again.

She eased down beside him, laid her head on his shoulder. "Bobby…I don't usually…I mean…"

"I know," he murmured. He lifted his arm, tucked it around her to curl her close to his side. "Are you sorry?"

"No. Are you?"

"Not really."

He wasn't sorry to have held her, to have let her hold him, too. But something was opening inside of him, something he was still struggling to close again. That part he could have done without.

"I should go," he said softly.

Shayla cursed the tears that came to burn her eyes. "You don't have to," she said in what she hoped was a steady voice. She was absolutely _not_ going to go to pieces and have him think she'd use her tears to manipulate him.

Owen had often thought she was all too good at that. A lot _he_ knew. She'd cried oceans of tears during her marriage to him and none of them had ever stopped him from doing whatever he wanted to her.

Bobby let go of her, sat up slowly. "It's better if I do."

She nodded, turned away, pressed her face into the pillow. Maybe it was just too much for him, her telling him she loved him, but she hadn't been able to stop herself.

He was the one for her. She knew it. In her heart, in her soul, she knew it.

Now she _was_ crying. Bobby couldn't see her face, and she wasn't moving, but he knew it. He could feel it. And he knew that he'd hurt her. Already, he'd hurt her.

He couldn't bear it.

He eased back into the bed, spooned his body around hers and drew her against him, stroked a hand over her hair. "Shayla…"

"Don't feel sorry for me," she said, her voice just a little unsteady and muffled by the pillow. "I'm a big girl."

"You said you loved me." Even as he said it, he felt the breath catch in his throat. "And you meant it."

"Yes."

His arms were around her now, cradling her in the warmth of his body. Even so, she shivered, not because she was cold, but because she felt so much for him.

"You can't…Shayla…it's not…"

"What?" she interrupted gently. "Logical? Sensible? Since when has love ever been either of those things?"

He bowed his face into her hair. "I'll just hurt you, Shayla."

"You hurt yourself every day you choose to stay numb," she answered gently.

Her words stunned him. "Too much has happened," he said slowly. "You don't understand."

She turned onto her other side so that she was facing him, one arm tucked beneath her head. "I do," she said. "I lived for five years with a man who was adept at brutality, not only with his hands but with his tongue. I know what it is to build walls around yourself to keep people out. I know what it is to freeze parts of yourself so that you can't feel the pain. To numb yourself with whatever's at hand. For me it was the drug of denial. I avoided and denied and put on a happy face. But it was all a front to hide the truth, not just from others, but from myself."

In the half-light, the tears shined bright in her eyes. While he watched, they slid free to trickle slowly down her cheeks. He knew in his heart that some of those tears she shed were for him, and it moved him beyond words.

She lifted a hand to his face, grazed her knuckles over his cheek. "A frozen heart's a painful thing," she murmured. "It splinters like glass when you least expect it."

He brushed gently at her tears, then took her hand in his, tugged it between them to rest over his heart. He couldn't deny there was something between them, couldn't deny that as much as he feared intimacy, it was something he fervently wished for.

He could speak the words of denial, though she would know they weren't true. He could – should – get up and get dressed, leave her there and give her no hope, because he had none to give.

She saw it all in his eyes, along with something she knew he didn't want her to see. The longing, that deep yearning, for all those things that he would deny he even wanted.

She bent her head and pressed a tiny kiss on the hand that held hers. His other one came up to cup the back of her head, curl into her hair, even as she turned to rest her cheek on their joined hands.

"Do you want to stay?" she whispered.

"I shouldn't…"

"That's not what I asked you." She rubbed her cheek over the back of his hand. "Do you _want_ to?"

"Yes." It was a murmur so soft, she barely heard it.

"Then stay."

He let go of her hand, folded his arms around her, and held on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It was dawn when Bobby woke. The pearl gray of it filtered through the closed slats of the mini-blinds, washed the room in the soft twilight that preceded the sunrise.

Shayla was curled against him in sleep, her head tucked against his chest, one arm curved warmly around his waist.

He'd slept the night away on his left side, holding her in his arms. Any wonder his heart was thudding now, his stomach clutching uneasily.

He hadn't touched a woman in more than three years, and he never spent the night with anyone. Always he went home to his own bed, or the woman went home to hers.

Sleeping together, in the literal sense, was an intimacy he wouldn't allow himself. It was too sticky, too easy to get caught up in the nearness of someone, in the idea that maybe things would be different this time, that he could make it work.

And here he was, in her bed, snuggled up with her and wanting desperately for things to be different this time.

He doubted they would be. That they could be.

With a sigh, he bowed his face into her hair. She was so warm and soft, cuddled against him that way. He could fall in love with her. It would be easy enough to let go, he thought, and just slide right into it.

And before he could take that thought any further, he took a mental step back, readjusted. Letting himself love her would only lead to heartbreak. He knew that as surely as the sun would rise.

Because she wouldn't stay. They never did. Even his own father hadn't.

Of course, he hadn't known back then that William Goren wasn't really his father. He hadn't known that his father was a killer who had turned on his mother for ending their affair. It was either fate or blind luck that Brady had only raped her, beaten her, but had stopped short of killing her. She'd escaped with her life, if not her sanity, for it was only three years later that the first signs of the schizophrenia that would plague her for the rest of her life began to show up.

Back then, he'd been wishing for a normal family, for a father who would come home and toss him in the air until he squealed with laughter, or take him outside and toss a baseball around with him.

Frank had been the one to throw the baseball, to shoot hoops with him, and then, when their father walked out, even that had been taken from him.

They'd both been stunned by the divorce, especially since it was considered such a sacrilege by the Catholic church where they'd both been taken by their mother since they were small children.

Frank had become sullen and angry, tired of trying to please a father who wouldn't give him a break and resigned to living with a mother whose behavior became more and more erratic until she was finally put on medication that made her more of a lump of clay than a person.

As brothers, they'd grown apart. And as a family, they'd been shattered beyond repair. Even before the diagnosis of schizophrenia and the divorce, their parents' marriage had been volatile. Their father drank too much and ran around with other women, which was mortifying to two young boys who had to listen to the snickers of the other kids at school about their family drama.

All his life he'd been pushed aside, first by his father, in favor of Frank, the son he knew for sure was his own. Then by his mother, who constantly lamented that if Frank had been the one in charge of her care, she wouldn't have had to live in an institution. She would push him away, imperious in her discontent, her sharp wit and tongue having returned with the innovations in medicine for her condition. And then, just as quickly, she would pull him back again, imploring him not to leave her alone even as she scolded him for not helping his brother.

Frank, with his drug addictions and gambling debts, who'd always known just what to say to get what he wanted. He knew how to lay on the guilt, or play on the sympathies of others. He could "talk" program even when he wasn't in one. He had learned how to game the system, work the angles, and how to flatter and coax until you did what he wanted.

Along with his gambling problems, that was another thing he had learned from his father.

So long ago, Bobby had stopped believing the things his brother said. And then he'd been sucked into the storm once again because of a nephew he'd never known he had.

He closed his eyes, felt the beginning of tears, and wished so much that he knew what was wrong with him that people found it so easy to use him and then toss him aside. What was it that had made it so easy for them to take his love, his heart, and then throw them right back at him and turn away?

And what did it say about him that the one man who had once been like a father to him had been the one to take his brother from him?

It would have been ridiculous to say he lived under a cloud, but there were days when that was exactly what it felt like. And here he was, snuggled cozily in bed with a woman who had no idea what she was getting herself into. How could she give her heart so freely when he couldn't give her anything in return?

She began to stir then, murmuring in her sleep as the arm around his waist curled tighter. She nuzzled against his chest, her legs stretching languidly and then sliding through his, and he felt himself beginning to stir in other ways.

He stroked her back lightly, very nearly groaned when she moved against him and her thigh slid gently between his. He slid a hand down her side, over her hip, just barely brushed it over the curve of her bottom, and felt the ache sweeten, in his loins and in his heart.

She murmured again, sighed. He lifted her leg, laid it over his, and then slipped his hand beneath her, found her already warm and wet. He brushed his lips over her cheek as he touched her, let the unbearable softness of her seep into his system until he felt it shimmering beneath his skin.

Shayla came slowly out of her slumber into what felt like a dream. Her body was still warm and pliant with sleep, and Bobby was stroking her so slowly, so tenderly, that when she climbed she did so as if underwater. Liquid and soft, until the climax crested in a long, warm wave and she sighed with the sweetness of it.

He shifted then, rolled her beneath him, covered her mouth with his as he slid into her like silk. Her arms lifted, wrapped around him; her legs wound through his like a rope, binding them together.

He felt his heart straining toward her and he locked it away, even as she was whispering his name, as her fingers danced over his skin and her mouth sought his. He closed the door to his heart, chained it, even while he took her. Even while he wanted to love her.

It was a slow, gentle dance as their bodies moved together in a rhythm as old as time itself. And when he felt her slipping off the edge, when he felt her close around him, he pressed his face into her neck and let himself go with her.

* * *

Later, as the sun rose to throw golden fingers of light over the bed, he eased slowly away from her and sat up. She rolled over onto her stomach into the warmth he'd left behind, her arms reaching to wrap around the pillow.

He sat looking at her for a long moment, his eye catching on something just on the back of her right shoulder. A small tattoo, he realized, and leaned to get a closer look.

Tinkerbelle, her knees tucked beneath her and a mischievous smile on her face.

And if that didn't fit what he already knew about Shayla, he didn't know what did. She was full of that playfulness and mischief. He'd seen plenty of it the day before when they'd been romping in the yard with Toby. And he'd felt it later that night when she'd teased him into dancing with her to that wild electronic music.

Because he wanted – badly – to lay back down and wrap himself around her, he stood up, picked up his jeans from the floor and fished around for his boxers. He found one of his shirts on the other side of the bed, but the t-shirt was mysteriously missing.

He dressed quietly, rolled back the sleeves of the shirt before buttoning it, and stood staring down at her as she lay curled beneath the sheet. She was shivering, he saw, and he drew the lightweight quilt over her, his heart aching for her, for what he wished he could have with her.

But he knew he couldn't.

He looked for his shoes, then remembered that he hadn't been wearing any when he walked over the night before.

He stood looking around her bedroom, at the fine oak furniture, the intricately made iron bed, the cozy little corner near the back windows where she had a comfortably overstuffed armchair and ottoman. A small table sat beside it with a pretty Tiffany lamp and three books stacked on it.

A room that invited you to stay. Just like the woman who slept dreamily in the bed.

Because he wanted too much to stay, he turned and made his way quietly down the stairs, peeked into the living room, which she seemed to be using as a home office. He blinked at the enormous bookcases in there, chock full. There were two more bookcases in the den, both filled with books and with framed photographs of her family.

Her kitchen was bright and sunny, with granite countertops and oak cabinets, and the view from all those windows that lined the back of the house was spectacular. The den fed right off the kitchen and was as inviting as the rest of the house. It was homey and cozy as a cottage from a magazine dedicated to living by the sea. She put things together well, but not so they looked like she had actually tried to put them together. The effect was much too appealing for his comfort.

Finn came to nudge at his hand and he gave his head an absent rub as he went down a short hallway and found the sunroom.

Her studio, he realized, taking in the long wooden table with hunks of clay sitting on it, the potter's wheel in one corner. There was a small wet bar, cabinets above and below it that held her supplies. Brushes, tubes of paint, pallets, assorted tools for shaping and sculpting the clay.

He recalled Shelly saying she wanted to sell some of her pottery, and Shayla telling him that the Fire Island Gallery had a collection of her work on display.

A Romanesque pedestal held a finished piece that had been fired and painted. It was a winged fairy, just over two feet tall, and he stepped closer to get a better look.

She was a beautiful, alluring creature with wings that seemed to be made of gossamer, though he knew they were fired clay, just like the rest of her. She wore a flowing dress of emerald green and there were tiny green slippers on her feet. Her eyes were a deep, deep blue that seemed to hold secrets in their gold-flecked depths and her hair was a mass off copper fire that fell to tumble around graceful shoulders. In her cupped hands she held a ball of fiery light.

_Touch me_, it seemed to say. _Touch me and feel my fire._

Hesitantly he reached out, laid the tips of his fingers on that ball, and felt a tingle of heat flash into him before the logical part of his mind took over and assured him that he was imagining it.

Wow.

He blinked, eased back a little, amazed at the ability Shayla possessed. He tried to analyze the trick, to see how she'd made that ball seem to be glowing from within, and he just couldn't figure it out.

She was truly gifted as an artist. Gifted in a way that could make people feel, even when they weren't aware of the desire to. Another thing to add to that tiny ache in his soul that was beginning to grow much too keen.

Finn was there again, nudging at his hands. He turned, knelt down and rubbed the dog's ears lightly. "What is it, boy? You want to go out?" Immediately those ears pricked up. He stood up, clucked softly. "Okay, buddy. Let's go."

He'd let him out to pee and then he would go. There was no use staying when he knew what Shayla wanted, how she felt. And he cursed himself for getting carried away with her. He had known it wouldn't be an easy tumble, not with her.

She loved him.

Even the thought of it filled him with an inexpressible desire to love her back. But he couldn't. Love only meant pain for him. And loss. He didn't think he could survive another heartbreak.

So he wound himself up, locked himself away, and stood on her deck watching Finn gambol around the yard, stopping every few feet to lift his leg and pee on something else.

He dawdled in the kitchen then, dug around in the pantry for dog biscuits and gave one to Finn when he found them. He found the coffee, too, and thought the least he could do was brew a pot for when she awoke.

A guilt gift, to soothe his own conscience.

And then, instead of leaving, he sat in the den, with one of the windows open, and listened to the ocean as he waited for the coffee to brew.

He wondered what it would be like living on an island like this, on the edge of the sea. This island, with it's virtual lack of cars and its plentiful supply of people riding bikes, or walking along, towing those bright red Radio Flyer wagons, seemed almost to be on the edge of the world. What was it Shayla had said – the pace was slow and easy, and reminded her of her home in the South.

Down south where the air was thick as molasses and tasted just as sweet.

He heard her voice in his head, the rich sugary flow of it, and closed his eyes for a moment, pictured her as she had been the day before, in her cutoffs and tank top, her legs and feet bare, running after Finn as they raced over the sand.

And he pictured her as she had been in the night, her eyes shining in the moonlight, her body dusky with her summer tan and glowing with the fire that burned within her.

It was that fire that had done it, he thought. He had been unable to resist her. The moment he had stepped through the door and gotten his arms around her, he'd been lost.

The coffee machine gurgled and hissed, and he blinked. Once, twice. He stood up, went to the kitchen, rummaged in a drawer, intending to write her a note and apologize for not staying until she woke up.

Lame, he knew, but he couldn't stay. He had to get out before he did something stupid. Like get involved with her. Like fall in love with her.

He found a small yellow notepad and a pen, and stood with the words running through his brain. He couldn't make himself write them down. Finally, he laid the pen on the pad, got down a mug, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

* * *

Shayla rolled over in the bed, her eyes fluttering open as she reached for Bobby. And found him gone. She sat up quickly, her heart pounding, then sinking like a stone.

He'd left her after all.

Her eyes brimmed, then spilled over as she leaned over the edge of the bed, skimmed her hands along the floor and managed to find her panties. She spotted something dark sticking out from beneath the trailing end of the quilt at the end of the bed and realized it was his t-shirt.

Foolishly, she pressed her face into it, breathed him in, and willed the tears to stop. It would do no good to cry about it. She wasn't going to give up just because he was gun-shy about getting involved. And she wasn't going to let herself be upset because he had left her there alone after making love to her so tenderly in the rosy light of the dawn.

She pulled his t-shirt on and it swallowed her, fell low enough to skim her thighs. The scent of him surrounded her, comforted her, and she stood up, stretched, and wondered where Finn was.

Then she got halfway down the stairs and smelled the coffee. What…had he made her a pot before slipping quietly away?

She wasn't sure if she should be mad or insulted, and then she walked into the kitchen and found him there, sitting at the small round table, the newspaper open in front of him, and Finn dozing on the floor at his feet.

Bobby sensed her there, even before she walked all the way in, and when he looked up he found his missing t-shirt. He also found that he liked the way she looked in it.

"Coffee's fresh," he said, keeping his tone light. "I just made it about thirty minutes ago."

"Thanks."

She felt the distance and wasn't sure how to deal with it at the moment, so she went to the cupboard and got down a mug. She spied the notepad and pen, and realized that he had intended to leave her a note.

She poured her coffee, sweetened it with sugar and the hazelnut creamer she liked, and wondered why he hadn't. What had made him stay?

Despite the wall he was attempting to keep between them, she set her cup on the table and moved to stand behind his chair so she could slide her arms around his shoulders, press a soft kiss to his temple.

"You were going to leave," she said softly. "But you didn't."

"No," he said, his voice just as soft. "I didn't."

"Why?"

"I don't know." He lifted a hand, laid it over both of hers where they rested against his chest. "I probably should have."

She rubbed her cheek against his. "One day, you're going to be glad you didn't."

"Bet _you_ won't be."

"That's a losing bet, sugar," she returned lightly, gave him a squeeze before she let him go to pick up her cup. "Do you like pancakes?"

He looked up at her. "Why are you making it so easy?"

"What?"

"This…" He lifted his hands, palms up, trying to understand her. "You…me… everything." He shook his head. "You walk in and see that I'm still here, even though you didn't expect me to be, and it barely puts a hitch in your stride. You see that pad…" He gestured toward the counter, "and wonder about the note I didn't write, and then you come over here and hug me like I didn't plan on walking out on you this morning."

"So…what…you want me to get mad?" She shook her head, smiled at him. "I could, but then that would just waste this beautiful morning and ruin my appetite. So. You want blueberry or chocolate chip?"

He stood up, shook his head again as he moved over to lean on the counter, watch her as she took out the flour and the sugar, rummaged in the fridge for milk and eggs.

"No temper fit," he said slowly. "And I know you're well capable of one. No tears either, and you've probably got plenty of those. So what's it about, Shay?" he asked, unaware of shortening her name in that familiar way.

"Temper fits wear me out," she told him. "You'll find that out soon enough. And I already cried while I was still upstairs, so that's done, too."

His heart softened, tugged hard. He stepped around the counter, took her hands in his. "You were crying?"

She nodded. "Because I thought you were gone," she said quietly.

"I should have been." He put his arms around her, pulled her close. "I'll just end up breaking your heart."

Shayla rested her head against his chest, slid her arms around his waist. "Better a broken heart than a lonely one," she countered. "At least one that's broken knows it's alive."

He closed his eyes, bent to rest his chin on top of her head. "Do you have an answer for everything?"

"No. Just the things that matter to me."

"I matter to you." He said it with the barest hint of wonder.

"Yes," she said gently. "You do."

* * *

Pancakes. She'd made him blueberry pancakes. And topped one of them with whole blueberries to make a funny little smiley face.

It had put a smile on _his_ face.

It was after nine when he crossed her yard, let himself through the gate with the charming arbor arching over it, covered with some kind of soft green vine that held tiny, delicate white flowers.

A white picket fence.

He shook his head. Of all things, he thought, that he should finally agree to take a vacation and end up staying right next door to someone who was the very epitome of all those desires he kept secretly locked in his heart.

The house, the coziness of it, the absolute hominess of it. The yard, rioting with flowers and hardy shrubs that would withstand the salty winds coming off the sea. She even had the dog. The friendly black lab with the soft brown eyes and playful disposition.

"Shayla."

He whispered her name as he stood for a moment at the base of the deck stairs, looking back at her house, at the long porch that held an old fashioned wooden swing, the deck that flowed out smoothly from one end of it and had a round, rippled glass table and four chairs in one corner of it, a grill situated in another.

Not just a house, he thought, but a home.

How could it be that he'd found her here? That he'd found everything he'd ever dreamed of, everything he'd ever wanted, right here, in her? How could it be possible that in less than twenty-four hours she'd opened herself and given him her heart?

And how could Shelly and Lewis have known so exactly what he needed?

The back door was open, he saw as he turned and started up the stairs. So much for sneaking in.

The very idea that he was considering sneaking in at his age made him chuckle a little as he slid the screen door aside and stepped into the family room at the back of the house. He stepped carefully around assorted toys with a wistful smile. Toby managed to make anywhere Lewis and Shelly went feel like home.

"Well…" Lewis turned from the counter, where he was pouring a second cup of coffee, fixed his friend with an interested grin. "Early morning walk?"

"Shut up." But there was no bite to the tone and he smiled as he eased onto a stool at the breakfast bar, leaned his chin on his hand. "Just so you know, I'm thinking about writing you out of my will."

The laugh came out quick and amused. "Disowning me, huh?" Lewis chuckled as he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. "After all we've been through, too."

"Yeah. You and your bright ideas." He tried to scowl, but couldn't stop the smile. " 'A little flirtation never hurt anyone'," he mimicked.

"You look okay to me."

"Yeah. Maybe." Bobby sighed. "She's in love with me."

Lewis choked, set down his coffee. "What?"

"Yeah. Didn't count on _that_ little development, huh?" He shook his head. "I don't know what to do about it."

"Do you have to do anything? Why not just let it be?"

"Lew." Exasperated now, he straightened, looked at his friend seriously. "She doesn't have any idea what she's getting into."

"Come on, man." Lewis buttered his toast, tossed it onto a small plate. "You act like you're so hard to deal with. You ever think maybe you keep ending up with the same results because you always pick the same types?"

Before Bobby could open his mouth, Lewis held up a hand. "Hear me out, will you? I'm only your oldest friend, which means I know you better than anybody else."

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But it's the truth at least. I know how you are about that." When Bobby only grinned at him and shook his head, he went on. "Look…the way I see it, you usually get involved with people who are either too damn needy…please let me remind you of Sandy The Stalker…or people who are shallow enough to keep things on the surface and have a good time. Trouble is, you get tired of the good time thing after awhile and want more, and they don't. Or, you get tired of the clinging vine types who burn up your phone day and night, and you have to back away slowly and pray they aren't the bunny-boiling type as well."

"That's a real glowing endorsement, Lew," Bobby said sarcastically. "You might want to call Shay over here and let her hear this, warn her to run while she still can."

Lewis waved a hand, dismissed the sarcasm with a smile. "She look like the running type to you?"

"No. That's what worries me." He stood up, went to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. "She's been through hell with her ex," he said slowly. "She didn't give me details, but she didn't have to. I've seen plenty and I can imagine."

He took a deep swallow of water, mused out the window for a long moment, watched a couple of teenage boys wading into the surf with their boogie boards in tow.

"I don't think…I could forgive myself if I broke her heart," he said quietly.

"Nothing new there," Lewis answered gently. "You don't forgive yourself anything. That's the problem." When Bobby whipped his head around to stare at him, he shrugged and plunged on.

"I'm your best friend, right?" he said. "Well then I can say this because you need to hear it. You take the blame for things that aren't your fault, and you push people away when they try to help you because you don't trust anyone to come through for you when you need them. So your answer is not to admit you need anyone, to not _let_ yourself need anyone."

"When did you get so damn psychoanalytical?" Bobby asked with a shake of his head and a barely concealed smile.

"You've been rubbing off on me." Lewis took another bite of toast, considered his friend thoughtfully. "Why don't you just relax and let it happen?" he asked. "Sounds to me like Shayla knows exactly what she's getting into, despite what you think. And you gotta admit, she's nothing like anyone you've been involved with before."

"We're not involved."

"Uh-huh." Lewis chuckled lightly. "You keep thinking that if you want. You're halfway in love with her already, man. You want to try putting the brakes on your heart, go ahead. But I think you'll regret it forever if you do."

Bobby shook his head. "I'll regret it more if I hurt her," he said softly and left to go back to his room.

He needed a shower, and time to clear his head. Except that he could smell her perfume on his shirt and, as he stood holding it in his hands and thought about holding _her_, he knew he wasn't going to be able to walk away so easily.

He turned the water on hot, stepped under the spray, and remembered making love to her that morning with the rosy glow of the morning sun slanting across the bed.

He hated to admit, even to himself, that he needed her touch; the softness of it, the absolute tenderness of it.

She'd be in her studio now, he knew. She had said she was going to spend the morning working with her clay and seeing what would come of it.

She'd be on the beach by lunchtime, she'd said with that sweet smile, and could be persuaded to make an extra sandwich or two for him if he was inclined to laze around on the beach a bit.

Maybe, he'd said, but he knew he'd be there.

He stood under the hot pulsing water and knew he should resist, back off before he got in too deep. Trouble was, he was already in too deep. He just didn't want to admit it.

* * *

Shayla was just washing the clay from her hands when she heard the tap-tapping of someone at the kitchen door. She leaned back and called out, "Door's open."

A moment or two later, Shelly appeared in the doorway of the sunroom.

"Are you still working?" she asked. "I don't want to interrupt you."

"I'm done for now." She dried her hands, glanced at the sculpture that was beginning to take shape on her table, then looked at the clock. "Wow. Nearly noon already. Time flies when you're not paying attention."

Shelly was staring at the fairy perched on her pedestal. "Shayla, this is amazing. The detail…it's wonderful."

"Maggie's wanting that one for the gallery, but if you want to wrangle with her, I'll give you her number."

Shayla grinned, then tilted her head thoughtfully at the look on Shelly's face. "Uh-oh. Wheels are turning. Are you here for the juicy details or because Bobby wants you to warn me to run quick, fast and in a hurry as far from him as I can?"

"Ha." Shelly gave a soft laugh. "The details are up to you, if you want to dish, and if he wants you to run, I sure don't. He needs to come up against someone more stubborn than he is."

"Well I sure fit that bill," Shayla chuckled. "Stubborn as three mules according to my uncle and my dearly departed grandma. Mama always said I was just determined. 'Course she was Irish, and more stubborn than I am, so she may have been a little biased."

"He's been through hell, Shayla." Shelly gazed out of the back windows toward the sea, then looked back at Shayla. "I think he's still pretty raw from everything that's happened in the past couple of years."

"Seems like he's lost a lot in his life."

"He has." She smiled, shook her head. "I guess I was really coming over here to make sure you weren't giving up on him. I have this mother-hen thing going on. Lew's forever telling me to lay off."

"Men," Shayla giggled. "What do they know?" And giving into impulse, she reached over and squeezed Shelly's hand. "I'm not giving up on Bobby. Not at all. I tumbled head first into love with him the moment I looked into his eyes," she added quietly. "I've had this sense for quite awhile that I was waiting for something. All it took was one look at him and I knew."

"Oh, God." Shelly felt her eyes filling. "You _are_ a romantic." She squeezed Shayla's hand back. "He needs you," she said. "No matter what he says to the contrary."

"Contrary. That's a word that suits him."

Shelly laughed out loud. "It does."

"I'm done here, so why don't I fix some sandwiches, dish up some of that leftover macaroni salad, and bring it out to the beach? I've got a portable dock for my iPod and we can have us a lazy afternoon of music, baking in the sun and swimming until our skin prunes."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll tell the boys. Lew will probably fall to his knees and kiss the ground you walk on if you stick a few more slices of that apple bread in with the sandwiches." Shelly laughed. "He's in love with you, you know; in that platonic, brotherly sort of way that happens when a man meets the woman who should have been his sister. He was singing your praises to Bobby this morning."

"Sounds like you're not the only one playing matchmaker here." Shayla grinned, felt a warm tug on her heart. "I think that's so sweet. I'm an only child, so I'll consider myself honored to think of him as the big brother I never had."

"We're a package deal, so you get a sister, too."

Shayla surprised herself, and Shelly, too, by giving her a hard, tight hug. "Two-for-one," she said softly. "That's a deal too good to pass up."

* * *

She was driving him crazy. Not on purpose, he knew. She didn't have any idea how difficult it was for him to keep his eyes off her, his mind set against the idea of getting involved with her.

Bobby sat half-reclined in a beach chair and watched Shayla and Cindy riding boogie boards in the rolling waves.

Shayla. God, she was beautiful. Clad in a simple black one-piece with pink and white stripes down the sides, she was squealing with laughter as she caught a wave that looked, to him at least, to be as tall as she was.

Not just beautiful, he thought, but lovely on the inside, too. Cindy had so wanted to ride some waves but neither Lewis or Shelly was inclined to do so, and so Shayla had jumped up and grabbed her own board.

"Come on, honey," she'd said. "We'll show 'em what they're missing!"

So now the two of them were riding those boards, and Shayla was laughing with Cindy and calling out as if she was still a kid herself.

Young at heart, he thought. There was still enough kid in her to make her playful. Hadn't she proven that to him already by putting a smiley face on his morning pancakes? By digging the sand from beneath his feet and burying them?

He glanced down at the mound of sand covering his feet and smiled, watched her and Cindy heading back up from the water, dragging the boards behind them.

"That was so awesome!" Cindy was saying. "I thought that wave was going to wipe you out for sure!"

"Nah." Shayla dropped her board to one side and squeezed the water from her hair, shook it out. "I've had bigger waves than that one before. I did wipeout pretty good once, when I was shredding this ten foot tube off Maui."

"Maui?" Lewis asked. "As in every surfer's dream?"

"The same." Shayla picked up her towel, wiped the salt from her eyes. "We took a vacation there once, when I was sixteen, and I rented a board and went for it. It was the wildest time I've ever had. I managed to get some really good rides, and some great tube time, before one of them just closed up and swallowed me."

"Tube time?" Lewis asked. "What's that?"

"Riding inside the tube of the wave as it's curling," she answered as she eased herself into her beach chair beside Bobby's. "That's every surfer's dream, too."

"Oh!" Cindy exclaimed as the music changed. "Kid Rock. This one's my favorite!"

" 'All Summer Long'," Shayla said, reached to turn up the volume. "Mine, too." She tapped out the beat on the arms of her chair and began to sing along.

Shelly stole a glance at Bobby, saw the smile curving his lips, and fervently hoped that he would just let go and let himself fall in love. It was easy enough to see he was already well on his way.

She sat Toby on her knee, rocked with him to the music, and knew that she had never been so happy in all her life. Not only did she have a husband that she loved, and who loved her, but she had this precious little boy, too.

And then she grinned as that lovable, slightly goofy husband of hers stood up and grabbed Cindy's hands, whirled her into a dance right there on the sand, and had her laughing and trying to keep up.

That was her Lew. Playful and silly, and he didn't care one bit that some of the others on the beach were staring at him with raised eyebrows and amused smiles.

"Woo-hoo!" Shayla hooted at them and laughed. She swung her hand out and gave Bobby's arm a tap. "Shelly and I have already decided that she and Lewis are the brother and sister I never had. And look at him…he's already living up to the family tradition!"

"You have a lot of dancers in your family, huh?" He was much too content here, he thought. Sitting here on the beach, watching Lewis and his niece dancing in the sand and thinking how perfect everything was, just in this moment.

"Oh, we all dance," she said. "Mama and Daddy used to go out dancing at least once a week, sometimes more. They won the shag contest in North Myrtle three years in a row. My father used to say my generation was deprived because we grew up not knowing how to do all those partner dances of the past. All that bumping and grinding isn't really dancing, he used to say. There's no finesse, no style."

She gave a quick laugh. "Old fashioned, that was my Daddy," she said. "He taught me a few of those old dances. The shag, of course, and then we moved on to the jitterbug, the rumba, and the cha-cha. I was probably the only girl in my class who didn't groan at the prospect of dance lessons in gym class. I already knew most of them."

She got up, pushed her chair aside and spread out one of her beach towels, then plucked her suntan lotion from her tote, handed it to Bobby. "Can you put some more on my back?" she asked. "Most of it washed off while I was swimming."

He nodded, leaned forward when she knelt beside his chair. He rubbed the lotion over her back slowly, every brush of his fingers over her skin bringing back the memory of what it had been like to make love to her, to wrap himself around her and hold her as she slept.

Attempting to settle himself, he traced his fingertip over her tattoo. "Tinkerbelle," he said. "It suits you."

"My father nicknamed me Tinkerbelle when I was little," she told him. "After they died, I went and sat for the tattoo."

"To honor his memory." He skimmed his finger over it again. "I like that."

Delighted that he got it, she smiled, gave a soft chuckle. "My Uncle Jimmy calls me Gidget," she said. "I've toyed with the idea of having a surfboard tattooed on my other shoulder."

"I want a tattoo," Cindy piped up, back on her towel now. "But my mom won't let me get one."

"I'll tell you this, honey," Shayla said diplomatically. "Listen to your mama and wait until you're a little older, then, if you still want one, think hard about what it is and where you put it. The thing about ink is, once you have it, it's there and you have to live with it, so it should be something that you'll still be able to stand looking at when you're an old lady."

"Can't you get tattoos taken off now?" Cindy questioned.

"You can." Shayla nodded. "But it's extremely expensive and hurts like the devil, or so I've heard. It's more painful to get one taken off than it is to have it done in the first place. Which is why you want to be careful what you get and where you put it."

"Wise advise," Shelly commented, with an admonitory glance at Cindy. "A few more years, Cin. Then you'll be able to do whatever you want. Until then, try not to give your mother any more grief than you have to."

"Geez, Aunt Shelly, I'm a teenager. Giving my parents grief is what I'm supposed to do, isn't it?"

Tickled, Shayla tossed her head back on a laugh. "Holy cow," she chortled. "Truer words were never spoken!"

She stretched out on her stomach, put her back to the sun, and pillowed her head on her arms. She could just see Bobby's fingers, drumming lightly to the beat of the music on the arm of his chair.

Her stomach did another one of those wild tumbles and made her smile. She reached up, gave his arm a gentle stroke, then settled back down and closed her eyes, enjoyed the sound of the ocean, the conversation going on around her.

This was summer, she thought. Relaxing on the beach with friends, just being herself.

All those years with Owen, she'd never been able to just be herself. Never been able to relax at all. What friends she did have were all in name only, acquaintances of Owen's and not really friends to her at all.

But this…this was how it should be. How it had been for her once, when she was young, before she'd met Owen. She'd had friends in the neighborhood, at school, and they had all run wild on the beach together, having the kind of harmless fun that summer was known for.

Fireworks and picnics, cookouts and beach parties with bonfires and dancing. Those had been good times. Happy, carefree times.

How wonderful to know that happiness like that still existed, that friends could still be made and love could still win.

Even as she thought this, she felt Bobby's hand brush lightly over her back. She rolled over and sat up, leaned over to lay her head on his arm with a soft sigh. His other hand was stroking her hair now, and she could feel his resistance lowering a little.

"I'm about ready for another swim," she said after a few minutes. She lifted her head, saw the wistful smile on his face. "What about you?"

"I don't know about that thing," he answered, gestured toward the boogie board. "Maybe I could just watch you."

"Forget the boards. We'll body surf." She stood up, tugged at his hand. "How about it?"

How could he resist her? Standing there like she was, looking so pretty with her hair gilded by the sun and her smile so sweet. He took her hand, rose from the chair.

"You going to wear your shirt in the water?" she asked.

He glanced down at the faded gray t-shirt he'd worn with his swim trunks. "I wouldn't want to scare the tourists away," he joked. "Probably better if I keep it on."

"Get out!" Shayla rolled her eyes. "There ain't a thing wrong with the way you look. Built like a linebacker is what you are, and you wear it well."

He shook his head with a small laugh, felt the blush creeping up his neck as he relinquished the t-shirt and tossed it over the back of his chair. "Okay?"

"Absolutely." Shayla grabbed his hand. "And y'all think us girls worry too much about how _we_ look. Sheesh!"

He laughed softly, very aware that Lewis was grinning behind his back. "Okay, okay," he said. "Point taken."

The water felt a little cold at first. He would have waded in a little at a time, but Shayla all but dragged him in until he was waist deep and she was laughing as the waves rolled in, pushing her back as she tried to get out further.

She dove beneath the next one, surfaced to find him beside her. "The idea," she told him, "is to get on top of the wave when it crests, then drop with it and let it carry you."

"Is it really an exact science?" he grinned and was rewarded with a playful shove.

"Cute," she said. "Tossing my words back at me." She tossed her head. "Don't listen to me then. You get rolled, just hold your breath and go with it. Eventually you'll hit bottom and be able to stand up."

He reached out, curled an arm around her and drew her close, caught her mouth lightly with his. "What happens if you get stuck on the bottom?"

She circled his neck with her arms. "You can't get stuck when there's this much momentum," she murmured. "The wave just sort of carries you."

"You got that right." He kissed her again as the water swelled gently around them and her body slid against his. "Too bad we're not alone out here."

"Wait a few hours. When the sun starts setting, we will be." She rested her head on his shoulder as her legs curled around his waist. "This is nice," she murmured.

"It is," he agreed.

They floated together as the swells lifted them. He stroked her back, turned to press his lips to her ear. "Shayla…"

"Are you going to try telling me again how messed up your life is and you just can't do this?"

"I was, but I guess I don't have to say it since you can read my mind." He tried to be flippant about it.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "You want to tell me some of these ways that your life is just so much more of a mess than anyone else's? That way, I won't be frustrated when I find out that I really can't read your mind after all."

"We'll be out here till midnight if I do that."

"Good." She kissed him lightly. "Then we'll be alone and we can do what I know you're still thinking about."

He shook his head. "You're too damn cute for your own good," he told her. "Sassy. Your ex…he hurt you…but you didn't let him defeat you."

"He beat the fight out of me for awhile," she said matter-of-factly. "Until I dug deep and realized that it wasn't gone…just buried under years of abuse. It took me awhile to find myself again, but eventually I did."

"You're a fighter." He rubbed her back gently. "And you don't play games. I knew that, too. I was coming over to apologize to you for leaving the way I did, and then I just…when I held you I couldn't remember what I was going to say. I got caught up…in you…in everything." He drew her close then, hugged her as the next swell lifted them. "I don't want to hurt you, Shayla."

"I know." She stroked her hand through his hair, so curly now that it was wet. "I love you," she said softly.

"Since we've already decided that love is neither logical nor sensible, I won't ask you how that's possible."

"Good."

"I'll just ask you why."

"Why?" She rested her cheek against his, felt his beard tickling her skin. "You want the simple answer or the complex one?"

"Let's start with the simple one."

"Because you need it." She drew back a little so she could look into his eyes, lift her hand to touch his face. "Because you're giving up and you need someone to love you and remind you that it's not too late."

He sighed, shook his head. "It _is_ too late," he said quietly. "I'm well past the point of no return."

"You're not," Shayla said with a gentle, easy stroke of her hand over his cheek. "You're just blinded by your pain." She put a soft, sweet kiss on his mouth. "I promise you, if you let me love you, you'll never be the same again."

"I'm already not going to be the same," he said. "That's what worries me."

* * *

_July 27, 2008_

_Sometimes this seems like such a waste of time. Not sure why I keep doing it. Or why I feel the need to sit here and put down something that sounds like I'm figuring all of this out. I guess I'm supposed to be looking inward. Kind of hard to do when you're squeezing your eyes shut. I'm sure Olivet could come up with a great psychological metaphor for that one. _

_I don't know how to feel anymore. Anything. And I was just fine with that, until yesterday. Until Shayla looked at me with those big blue eyes and yanked my heart right out of my chest. I can't even write about her, think about her, without feeling like I'm falling. Like there's nothing but air under me and I'm falling. But there's no impact, no bottom to hit. There's just this feeling of floating, of weightlessness. _

_God, what's she done to me? A little flirtation, Lew said. And now she says she loves me. And she means it. I want it. I want it too damn much. It's going to kill me if I don't let her in. Or if I do. But there's nothing for her to find. Cobwebs, maybe. Empty rooms. _

_I feel dead. Dried up. Maybe this is why Frank stayed high all the time. So he wouldn't feel like this. But then, destroying himself was worse. So was destroying everyone around him. Mom. Donny. Evelyn. Me. The list could go on and on. Maybe Dec was right. Maybe Frank is better off dead._

_God! I don't mean that. I should erase it, pretend I never even thought it. _

_It hurts. It really hurts. I don't know how to live anymore and I'm walking blind, just like Shayla said. How the hell did she see that? How can she know? It's like she's got some kind of window into my head, or maybe my heart. What's left of it. It's a pitiful mess. _

_She's waiting for me now. Sitting on her porch swing, listening to the night, with her head full of dreams. She wants things from me that I don't have. I think she wants to give me something she thinks I want. I don't know how to tell her that I can't want it anymore than I can let her give it. _

_I should stay away from her. I don't know how to stay away from her. _

_I'm afraid she wants to save me. But she can't. She can't save me anymore than I could save Frank. And I tried. I always tried. It hurts that I couldn't, that he wouldn't let me. I'll never forget the last thing I said to him. If I could take it back, I would. If I could go back to that day and put those words back in, I'd swallow them and never, ever say them. _

_Why didn't I tell him I loved him? Even when he was yelling at me, I could have said it. I could have told him how much I hated to see him stumbling through life, making a mess of himself the same way Dad did. Why didn't I just open my mouth and tell him that I loved him anyway, even if he was right. Even if sometimes, I really didn't want to be his brother. _

_No I didn't want to be the one responsible for him. I didn't want to be the one fishing him out of the gutter, looking for him in the homeless shelters or on park benches. I didn't want to walk down that alley and find him laying there with his eyes staring up at nothing. I always knew it would end that way someday. I hated knowing it. I wanted to stop it. Why couldn't I stop it? Why couldn't I help him? Why wouldn't he let me?_

_I didn't want to be the only one taking care of Mom either. I wanted help, and he couldn't do it. I know he couldn't. It never did any good to be angry at him for that. He wasn't responsible enough to take care of himself, much less anyone else. So how can I hold it against him?_

_And how can two people manage to screw up their kids so damn much? Or maybe I should wonder how two adults could spring from those two messed up people with any sense of themselves at all. _

_I know who I am and it's not because of my blood. It's who I made myself. I had two fathers, one who gave me his genes and one who gave me his name. I have nothing but anger and contempt for both of them. And what does that make me?_

_I wish I could love Shayla. I wish I could hold her and accept the love she offers. I wish I could give her my heart and trust her to keep it. _

_I want her, and I don't. I want to be with her, and I want to stay away from her. She scares me. She fascinates me. She stands there and holds out her heart to me, opens her arms and offers shelter. _

_Her presence comforts me. I don't know how to feel about that. _

_And she's waiting for me right now with stars in her eyes and romantic notions spilling out of her heart. I don't know how to feel about that either._

Bobby sat back, pulled his fingers off the keys and read over what he'd written. And then he shut off the computer, got up slowly, and went to meet Shayla. To sit on the porch swing with her and think of all of the reasons why he shouldn't be there. Or all of the reasons why he should.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Bobby forced himself to sleep alone that night, to prove that he could. He left Shayla at her door with a quiet determination to hold himself in check. He did the same thing the following night, and then the one after that, until he thought maybe he had his feelings better in hand.

Except that he dreamed of her, and woke every morning with an ache that went soul deep.

She took them sightseeing on Monday, through the Sunken Forest, down all those winding paths dappled with shade and sunlight, fragrant with the scent of sassafras and pine. Holly trees, black oaks, pitch pines – she knew each tree on sight, as well as many of the shrubs.

She'd held his hand as they walked along the boardwalk, just ahead of Lewis and Shelly, with Cindy pushing Toby in a stroller. And between them, Shayla and Shelly had probably taken more than a hundred pictures along that walk through the forest.

The next day was no different, as they strolled along Main Street in Ocean Beach, browsing the shops and stopping for a late lunch at Barracuda Bay, where Shayla had introduced them to Randy and a very pregnant Maureen. She'd taken them into Ocean Beach Gallery and introduced them all to Maggie Monroe, who was both her agent and her friend.

Maggie, with her jet black hair cut into short layers that whirled and flipped around an almost elfin face. She had a boisterous laugh and was nearly as tall and lanky as Shayla was small and slender.

Bobby wasn't sure if it was by accident or on purpose that he found himself making mental note of all the people Shayla knew and spent time with. It wasn't as if he would really be getting to know any of them. He was just being observant, as he usually was.

He told himself that a few times until he believed it.

Then there was the time they spent either sitting on the beach, or swimming in the ocean, neither of which he'd done much of since he was a teenager. He couldn't recall ever spending so much time doing nothing but relaxing. They took walks along the shoreline, or sat on one of the decks in the evenings, enjoying the stars and the cooler air of night.

Shayla was always there, within his reach if he wanted to touch her, to hold her. And he did touch her. Often. Too often, in his opinion. He was beginning to think he could feel her beside him even when she wasn't there.

Oh, she thought she was clever. Giving him the space he hadn't even asked for, not complaining when he disappeared for an appreciable amount of time each morning, to walk alone and stay away from her.

Feeling sorry for him was more like it, as Shelly had let it slip that she'd told Shayla about the recent losses in his life.

It was bad enough that Shayla had this wounded bird thing going on with him. Now she had the gory details, too, which was probably only adding to that mountain of pity.

He woke on Saturday morning in a foul mood, having dreamed of her all night. He remembered the sweet smile she'd given him the night before when he left her, the way she'd kissed him so softly, then backed away and let him go, though he knew she wanted him to stay.

Lewis had booked a charter on a boat that day for a day trip up the bay to some of the other communities on the island. He decided to leave them to it. He wasn't in the mood for company just then, and he figured they deserved a family day without dragging him along, too.

When he said he thought he'd take a rain check on the day trip, he saw the sympathy roll into Shelly's eyes. Lewis was better at hiding it, but it was there. All it did was make his black mood even blacker.

He went back to his room to be alone and try not to think. And then he found himself sitting at the little desk, with his laptop open, and his fingers racing over the keys.

_August 2, 2008_

_What the hell am I doing here? What am I doing playing family with Lewis and Shelly, very nearly playing house with Shayla? Except that I haven't done more than kiss her all week and it's driving me crazy. _

_Oh yeah, I'm onto her. She just lets me think I'm in control. She gives me that sweet smile and acts like she's not disappointed when I won't stay, when I move away from her and try to put some distance there. She acts like she's not hurt, but she is. She's got a headful of wishes and dreams. She thinks all I need is a soft touch and some tender words, and everything will be better. _

_She's so determined. No, determined is too tame. Stubborn. That's the word. She says her grandmother used to say she's as stubborn as three mules, but I don't think so. She's more like a pack of them, with their heels dug into the ground, refusing to budge no matter what you say or do. _

_She's got me. Damn it. She's had me from day one. _

_And there's Lewis and Shelly, with those "knowing" looks and glances that tell me they're both wondering if I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I know they care. Lew and I have been friends since we were kids. So why does it make me so damn mad that they're trying so hard to help me? Why does it get under my skin to know that they planned to introduce Shayla to me and then pinned all their hopes on the fact that I'd be able to have some sort of normal relationship with a woman for a change? Isn't that what I want, too?_

_Shayla thinks she knows what I want. She thinks she knows what I need. _

_Damn it. She _does_ know! And it pisses me off. It pisses me off even more when I see that look of pity on her face. Or on Lew's. Everyone looking at me like 'Poor Bobby. His life's a mess and he just can't seem to catch a break.' _

_I don't need their fucking pity. I don't need anyone's pity. _

_I need Shayla. I don't want that written down anywhere. But I can't help it. I need her. I need to hold her, to touch her, to wrap her close and let her give me all those warm, soft feelings that spill out of her heart every time she's around me. Except that I think she feels sorry for me, too, and I hate it. _

_I hate it!_

_Who am I kidding? I'd never be able to make her happy. Or really trust her. I'd always be waiting for her to walk out. And she would. Why shouldn't she? How could she stay and build a life with a dead man? How could she hope to have any sort of relationship with me when I can't even let her past the first defense? _

_Defenses. I have loads of them. Shayla's just stubborn enough to knock her head against every one of them, too. She can't just leave well enough alone. No. She's got to keep trying, keep pushing, keep tugging at me. _

_I should leave now. I should pack my things and take the next ferry back to Long Island and go home. I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me. In fact, I don't need anyone at all. I've done it this long by myself, I can't do the rest of it by myself, too. _

_Right. Now I'm a damn liar, too._

He sat back, the anger still swirling, and realized that even trying to write it all down wasn't really helping. He got up, moved through the now empty house, and went out onto the deck, stood staring at the ocean, at the families already coming out to dot the sand with their towels and chairs, boogie boards and sand toys.

He remembered a long ago time, when he'd been very small, that he and Frank had dug holes in the sand and built forts while their mother chatted with her girlfriends about things they didn't understand, or even care to pay attention to.

That was before the monster that was schizophrenia came to live in their house. Before their father walked out on his marriage, and his responsibilities, though he'd had at least one foot out the door all along.

Still, at least when he was there they could pretend they were a real family, despite the fact that he always seemed to smell like another woman's perfume and he and their mother would fight about it.

He shook himself, hard, away from the past. And then, just like he had that first day, exactly a week ago, he spotted Shayla out for a run with Finn. And just like that first day, he couldn't take his eyes off of her. Bright red shorts, white t-shirt, and her curls tumbling and blowing in the light breeze.

His heart gave a hard, violent tug. He ignored it.

She saw him. He knew she did. He could feel her gaze, though he couldn't see her eyes clearly. And then she waved.

He didn't wave back. Instead, he stood, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, just as he'd been standing on that first day.

Having himself a sulk, Shayla thought, absently reaching down to pick up the tennis ball that Finn dropped at her feet. She tossed it back up the beach, watched him chase it, and decided to leave well enough alone.

She needed to weed her flower beds, water the ferns on her porch before the heat of the day scorched everything. She would concentrate on those things and give Bobby some space, some time to think, if that was what he needed. She whistled for Finn, looked back toward the house.

Bobby was gone.

Shrugging, trying not to take it personally, she headed back over the beach, through the dune swale and waited for Finn to come on the run. She let them both through the gate, then left him in the yard and went inside to put on the music and turn on the outdoor speakers.

Soon enough she was singing along with Sheryl Crow about soaking up the sun while she watered her ferns, then set about deadheading her petunias.

She'd just about finished her gardening chores when she heard the gate swing open. She turned, glanced at Bobby over her shoulder, noted the scowl, the tightness in his jaw.

"Haven't worked off that mad yet?" she asked as she stood up, took off her gloves.

"What do you mean?" He walked toward her, knew he should stop where he was, turn around, and go back the other way.

"You've been sulking since last night." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "You're all but melting the ground beneath you, sugar."

He stopped a few steps away from her, watched as she picked up a small basket of cuttings, swung it lightly in her fingers. "You can stop that now, Shay," he said tightly.

"What's that?"

"That sassy little southern belle routine." He stepped closer. "You're feeling sorry for me, and covering it up with 'sugar' and 'honey' doesn't change that."

"Lord, but you're a bear when you're cranky." She shook her head, laid her gloves on top of the cuttings and walked around him to go up the stairs to the deck, set the basket on the table. "And why would I be feeling sorry for you? Seems to me the sorry thing around here is your mood. You want some tea?"

"Tea?" Baffled, he stood in the yard and stared at her. "Why? So we can have some cookies with it while I whine about my troubles?"

She fisted her hands on her hips, stared back at him. "Well, since you're in such a lovely mood, how about you just take it somewhere else? Or should I maybe get out the cheese to go with that whine?"

When he didn't answer her, she shook her head, called out to Finn and then turned and went inside with him at her heels, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.

What did he want from her? She'd given him room to breathe, hadn't pushed him about what had begun between them. She hadn't even let him see how disappointed she was each time she felt the distance he was trying to put between them, how hurt she was each time he held her and then pushed her away again.

She was trying to be considerate of his feelings, she thought. And what does he do but come over and drag his bad mood with him, then take it out on her!

By the time she heard him come inside, she was simmering and she busied her hands with the pitcher of tea she'd made that morning, pouring some for herself over a glassful of ice.

"I don't want your pity, Shayla," he said irritably as he stepped into the kitchen, stunned when she whipped around and pinned him with a hot glare.

"Pity?" She snapped the word off like a bite, slapped her hand on the counter. "You think it's _pity_?"

"I'm used to it by now," he countered, hating himself all the more for how nasty he sounded. "Those stares. Those little corner-of-the-eye glances. I can almost hear that little clucking sound that comes along with it."

"That sound you hear is my fuse being lit," she shot back. "You'd be wise to back off and give me a minute to think before I say something I shouldn't."

He should do just that; back off. But he didn't. He was in too foul a mood to care about the consequences now, so he stepped closer, leaned his hip casually against the center island, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Well go ahead then," he challenged her. "Go off and have a good one. Let your feisty little temper out. At least then I'd be able to tell you're real instead of this cool-headed woman who's been so damn polite for the past few days you almost don't seem human."

"You…you…" Temper flared, a towering flame of it. Before she knew what she was doing, she grabbed the glass she'd gotten out for him and hurled it across the kitchen. "You boneheaded idiot!" she shouted.

He stepped gingerly aside as the glass whistled past him, crashed against the wall and shattered. "Well…" A little startled, but impressed, he gave a slight nod. "_That_ was real."

"I'll show you real!" she snapped, her eyes blazing, then narrowing into slits as she grabbed a bowl from the counter.

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, grabbed her arm and eased it back before she could aim it, then simply crushed his mouth hungrily down onto hers.

The bowl slid from her hand, clattered onto the counter. Her arms lifted, hooked around his neck, her hands diving into his hair to tug him closer. She could taste the hot need, the hunger, and she wasn't sure if it was hers or his.

Years. It felt like years. It couldn't have been only days since he'd tasted the passion in her, felt the fire inside her spilling out to engulf him. It felt like so much longer than that.

His head was spinning, his heart thundering. He lifted her onto the counter, ravished her mouth before he took his own on a journey down her throat. His hands slid beneath the cotton of her shirt, found her skin warm, quivering with nerves, with temper.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as she fastened her teeth on his neck. "Shayla…" Her name came out in a soft groan of desperation. It was all he could say before he simply lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

He tumbled her onto the bed, heedless of those warning bells going off in his head, telling him that he was rushing headlong into something he'd never get out of.

He didn't listen to them.

He needed her. He needed to touch her, to feel her arms around him, to know, if only for these few moments, that nothing else existed but the two of them.

He dragged her shirt over her head, tossed it aside before he reached to unhook the simple white bra. He couldn't think anymore, not through the haze of desire and need clouding his brain.

And he could see her eyes – those deep pools of blue going blind with the passion that was overriding everything else, and mingling with what was left of her temper.

Her hands fisted in his hair when he took her breast in his mouth, held him there as she moaned, arched her hips upward, offering, asking.

Her body was on fire. There was a twisting, turning beam of light rolling through her, spinning her desire into something just out of her control. When her shorts slid away, and then her panties, she moaned, yanked his shirt over his head so she could get her hands on him, feel the warmth of him.

He tasted her desperation, her need, as he slid his fingers into her and drove her over that first peak with more force than he intended. She flung her arms back, cried out, her hands gripping the rails of the bed. She writhed beneath him as he plunged his tongue into her and tore a wild sound of shock and delight from her throat.

And then she could see nothing but the bright, blinding light of the stars dancing behind her eyes as the orgasm flooded her senses, left her shuddering and very nearly whimpering with the onslaught of sensation that rocketed through her body.

She never saw him finish undressing. She was too lost in the glorious wonder of what he had done to her, and then he was naked and warm beside her, and she reached for him blindly, opening for him as he slid into her in one hard, swift stroke.

She matched his frantic pace as he moved within her, wrapped herself around him and held on as he took her, as his mouth fused greedily with hers. She tasted his need, and his pain; that desperate, aching sadness that filled him and threatened to drown him. She felt it seeping into her skin, sinking into her own heart, and knew that he sought to rid himself of the wretched misery of it. He couldn't seem to do it, and she felt the pain of that, too.

She cradled his head as they kissed, murmuring soft pleas and words of love, wanting him to lose himself in her for what time he could. And even as she was beginning to slide toward that glittering edge, she felt him coming with her. They reached it together, and flew.

She held him now, her hands gently stroking his back. He turned his face into her neck, shocked and more than a little dismayed to find there were tears burning in his eyes. He blinked them back, took a shaky breath before he started to pull away from her.

"No," she murmured. "Stay."

"I'm too heavy for you."

"You're okay for now." She scratched his back lightly. "I've missed holding you like this."

"Shayla." He whispered her name and lay still, gave himself time to recover, for the tears to subside before they overflowed. Relieved when they began to dry up, he nuzzled in her neck, put a soft kiss there.

"I'm sorry, Shay," he said. "I was in a nasty mood. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"No, you shouldn't have," she agreed. "But it happens." She brushed a hand over his hair. "And it's not pity you see when you look in my eyes, Bobby. It's love."

He lifted onto his elbows to look down at her. "I guess I don't know what love looks like," he said quietly. "At least, not when it's directed at me."

"You don't know what it feels like, either, do you?"

"I guess not." He shifted now, rolled with her so that she was sprawled over his chest. He smiled up at her, wanting to lighten the mood. "You're really cute when you're mad."

"Ha!" She gave a small laugh. "You're lucky you move fast or you'd have been seeing stars."

"I did." He cupped her head, brought her mouth to his. "Just now."

"Smooth talker, too." She kissed him lightly, a soft brush and nibble. "Why don't we go down and have something to eat. Then you can tell me what put you into such a foul mood this morning."

"I missed you."

He hadn't know the words were there, and now they were out before he could stop them. "I dream about you every night, Shay," he went on softly. "And then I wake up wanting you." He closed his eyes, opened them again slowly. "I don't want to need you like this."

"I know." She stroked his face gently. "Bobby, there's no shame in that need."

"Maybe not. But it opens you up to pain all the same."

"I won't hurt you," Shayla murmured and put a soft kiss on his lips, traced the lines of his face with gentle fingers. "If you give me your heart, I'll take good care of it."

"I want to believe that." He grazed his knuckles over her cheek. "Especially because I know it's hurting you that I don't."

"Not hurting exactly," she said quietly. "It just makes me sad."

He nudged her head down until she laid it over his heart, and he cradled it there, stroking his fingers through the softness of her hair. "I was trying to stay away from you," he said. "But I can't."

"Then don't."

"I'm thinking about it."

She smiled, closed her eyes as he turned onto his side to cuddle her close. "Sleepy," she murmured. "I told you temper fits wear me out."

He scratched his nails lightly along her back. "Take a catnap then. We can have lunch when you wake up."

"Mmmm…" She settled in with a murmur and a sigh, curling her body into the warmth of his. "Stay."

He bowed his face into her hair, put a small kiss on top of her head. "I will."

This time he did stay, and lay curled up on the bed with her while the sun played hide-and-seek in the fluffy white clouds that scooted by on the ocean breeze.

He listened to the sound of the waves, the cry of the gulls. It was all so peaceful, so unlike his own place in Brooklyn. Though not in the heart of the city, it was noisy enough with the boom of car stereos and the constant sound of people and movement, the rumble of nearby trains.

But this – this wonderful quiet, punctuated now and then by the shouts and laughter of people, young and old, out on the beach, or the screeching of the seagulls as they wheeled overhead, was putting another kind of ache in his heart.

One that he feared would never be satisfied unless he stayed here, right here, with Shayla.

It was a home he wanted, and a family to go with it. And just now it was hurting badly because he knew he'd never have either.

No matter how content he felt in this moment, or how much Shayla thought she loved him, he wasn't willing to trust his heart, his very soul. Not when he knew what it was to have both shredded beyond repair.

Maybe she would stay – for awhile. But one day, when she'd had enough, or tired of him, or just got those itchy feet that people were prone to, she would walk away, leave him bleeding.

It didn't matter that she promised she wouldn't, that she would pledge her love, her life. He couldn't trust those words, not even from her. Because they were only words, only promises. And promises were easily broken.

Hadn't he learned that the hard way?

His stomach clutched when she stirred, when she murmured his name and slid her arm up to hook it around him, brush her fingers through his hair.

He struggled to hold onto his heart, though he felt it slipping through his fingers. Mercilessly, he slammed the door on it, shot the bolt again, and pulled himself back from the edge.

* * *

Shayla lay snuggled in Bobby's arms, coming out of her doze to the sound of him quietly breathing beside her in a way that told her he'd fallen asleep. Careful not to wake him, she eased slowly away, climbed carefully out of the bed.

She took a quick shower, smiling as she thought about him, about how much she felt for him. She'd been so afraid once. Afraid she would never be able to love again, to trust again. But she could. And she did.

She towel dried her hair, let the curls tumble damply to her shoulders, then pulled on a clean pair of denim shorts and a white undershirt she'd snagged from Bobby. It swallowed her, of course, but she liked it that way, and she rolled the sleeves up just a bit as she went to sit on the edge of her bed and watch him as he slept.

There was something so beautiful about him; this big, strong fragile man. He would deny that beauty, cover it up so no one could see it. But she saw it, saw the heart of him. And a bruised heart it was. Deeply wounded and so easily broken he was loathe to let anyone get near it, much less touch it. Any wonder he didn't want to give it away. He was too afraid of having it shattered and tossed back at him.

She touched his face, stroked her fingers lovingly along his cheek, brushed them through those stubborn little curls that just would not be tamed, though he tried. He needed so much care, so much tenderness. And she so wanted to give him those things, and more.

She leaned over, touched her lips to his cheek. "I love you," she whispered. "I'll take good care of you. I promise."

He stirred, moaned something unintelligible in his sleep as he turned onto his side, curled up and drew his arms close to his chest. A small gesture of self-protection that made her want to hold him in her arms and soothe away all those scars that made it so hard for him to accept love when it was freely offered.

When he stirred again, she shushed him gently, soothed him with tender strokes and quiet murmurs until he slipped back into the peacefulness of sleep. She put a tiny kiss on his brow, brushed her fingers through his hair before she got up to go downstairs and root around in the kitchen, see what she had on hand for lunch.

She first cleaned up the broken glass from the floor near the table, unable to stop the foolish grin. He'd handled her outburst with a kind of bemused admiration that told her he would let her go off if she needed to, but he could step in and stop her anytime.

He was big enough, powerful enough, to do real damage to another if he wanted to. She sensed that he would only use that power if he had to, as a last resort, and he would never use it to lash out at a woman. No, Bobby might use his strength to protect himself, protect her, maybe even use it to hold her in check if she flew off the handle too far, but he would never, ever use it to harm her.

Not like Owen, with his thin, hard hands and black, ice-edged temper.

It had taken her the better part of two years to find herself again, to get back all of the pieces of herself that Owen had ripped away and destroyed. She came to Bobby a whole person, ready to use what she'd learned to help him, if he would let her.

She was cutting boneless beef ribs into fine slices for a stir-fry when she heard the water running upstairs. She finished the meat, set it aside, started on the vegetables, hummed along with the music she'd put on while she waited for Bobby to come downstairs.

It wasn't long before she heard his footsteps coming down the front hall and she turned to smile at him as he walked into the kitchen. He was freshly showered, his hair all damp and curly, and he smelled like her vanilla shower gel. When he came to put his arms around her, she gave an appreciative sniff and sighed.

"Mmmm…you smell good."

"That vanilla stuff you have is the most manly thing I could find." He kissed the top of her head. "You've got enough shower gel, lotion, and who knows what up there to start your own bath shop. Do you actually _use_ all that stuff?"

Shayla laughed at him as he went to the refrigerator, filled a glass with ice from the door. "Yes, I actually use it all." She sent him an impish grin. "It's a girl thing."

Bobby poured some of the tea she'd made earlier over the ice, took a long swallow before he moved to slide his arms around her waist, lean over to sniff at her neck. "A girl thing, huh?" he murmured, making her giggle when he nipped at her ear. "I like it."

"Drink your tea!" she laughed. "And let me finish these vegetables."

"Yes ma'am." He kissed her cheek, picked up his glass and carried it to the table, sat watching her while she chopped and sliced with the quick, easy strokes of a chef. He gave a low whistle. "Pretty quick hands," he commented. "Did you work as a chef in your parents' restaurant?"

Shayla gave a small laugh, dumped broccoli florets into a bowl and picked up a clump of asparagus. "Now and then, when there was a need for it. I worked in the restaurant every summer, helped out at the inn, too. Our head chef, Sully, showed me how to hold a knife properly, how to filet fish, slice beef so thin it practically melts in your mouth. He was awesome."

Her smile was wistful now as she drizzled oil into the pan and turned on the gas, adjusted the flame to heat the oil carefully. "Those were good times," she said after a moment. "I hated to sell the business, but I just couldn't stay. And it was never my passion the way it was theirs. I made sure I sold it to another local family who would treat our seasoned employees with the respect they deserved and from what my Aunt Stacy tells me, they're doing a good job of it. The restaurant was voted Best of the Beach again this past spring, and the inn's booked solid all the way into October."

She tossed the minced garlic into the oil, shook the pan and watched it sizzle for a moment before she dumped in the beef and began to toss it with a big spoon. Small, capable hands that stirred meat and vegetables together, seasoning them as she kept the spoon moving smoothly in the pan.

"Wow." He smiled at her as he stood up to refill his glass and hers. "Watching you do that's turning me on."

She giggled, elbowed him lightly in the ribs when he made a playful grab for her butt. "First we eat," she said. "Then we can play."

"If you insist."

He glanced up at the glass-fronted cabinets, opened the one that held her plates and got down two, then went into her drawers for the flatware. He set the table, put the pitcher of tea in the center of it, hardly aware of how easily he was sliding into place in her life.

Shayla was aware of it. Very much so. She kept her thoughts to herself as she dished out white rice onto both their plates, then spooned the meat and vegetables over each. She'd keep her own council for the moment and let him figure out for himself that he was falling in love with her.

* * *

The late afternoon brought clouds with it. A sudden, gathering storm sizzled in the air.

They sat on the sofa in the sunroom, the scent of paints and clay all around them, and flipped through Shayla's many photo albums. She was giggling over the old pictures, the crazy poses her parents had always managed to capture her in, and the memory of some of those childhood adventures.

Bobby had been ambling through her den, looking at her photographs and as they had begun to talk about her family, and her childhood, she'd gotten nostalgic and pulled out the family albums.

"Now this," she said, pointing to a photo of her and a tall, rangy boy with dark hair. "This is me with my cousin Chris. His sister Wendy took this, one summer while we were at camp down near McClellanville. The camp was along the river, and right down this old dirt road from a little hole-in-the-wall juke joint. Forbidden to us, of course, which only made us want to go see what it was all about."

"Did you?"

"Of course." She giggled at the memory. "Wendy and I were sixteen, Chris was eighteen and a counselor that year. We thought of him as a man then, you know. We figured he'd look out for us if there was any trouble. And so we snuck out of the camp and walked the two miles with a flashlight and about twenty bucks apiece, just in case.

"The air was so thick that night, you could have sliced through it with a knife and had toast. There was a marsh nearby and the smell of it was ripe and a little on the pungent side. I kept thinking of the gators that liked to hang around in the murky water of the swamps and I was hoping that we didn't meet one while we walked that lonely little road, so close to the river.

"But it was worth that walk when I heard the music. It was amazing! Wild and howling, with guitars and a bass that sounded like it was going to come through those thin wooden walls and knock us flat. There was this one guy, a big black man with arms the size of tree trunks, manning the door. And there we were, three white teenagers in a place where the old ideas still lingered and this man had to wonder what we were doing there. And then the music caught me, and before I knew what I was doing, I was keeping time with it while Chris tried to explain to the bouncer that he'd give him the twenty if he let us in, just for a few minutes."

He could see it, feel it, very nearly smell it. Her words, her tone, created a picture in his head. "Did you get in?"

She nodded. "The bouncer, he told us they called him Big Henry. And he took one look at me and my bouncing feet and said how he thought maybe it'd be okay if we went on in for a look-see since I seemed to be enjoying myself so much.

"It never occurred to any of us to be afraid. We didn't grow up prejudiced. Our parents raised us to value all people, no matter the color of their skin. To us, walking in there and being the only white faces in a sea of dark ones didn't seem strange at all."

"I was fearless back then," she chuckled. "Grown men wanted to dance with me, but Big Henry, he kept his eye on me. He allowed one or two of them to whirl me around, and they were perfect gentlemen. The ones that looked a little less gentlemanly got a fierce look from Big Henry and they left me alone. And Chris and Wendy just sat at this little table, enjoying the music and watching me dance my fool head off."

"And did you get caught?" He was enjoying the trip down the memory lane of her adolescence. He'd been right about her. She _was_ adventurous.

"Nope." She grinned at him, flipped the page and leaned her head against his shoulder. "When the place closed down at two, we headed back down the road and snuck back into our cabin with no one the wiser."

"Lewis and I did that sneaking around thing a few times," he said. "We snagged a couple of fake ID's and got into bars all over Long Island before we were old enough to drink. We raised a little hell now and then, and nearly plowed through a tree one night out on the Jones Beach Loop trying to take a curve at sixty miles an hour. His mom knocked our heads together for that one."

"He's your best friend, isn't he?" she asked, closing the album and setting it aside.

"Yeah." He was smiling now with the memory of those long ago days. "We've known each other since grade school."

"I lost touch with all of my friends from back then," she said wistfully. "Once I married Owen, I moved down to Charleston and he didn't want me to hang out with any of them anymore."

She gave a derisive snort. "God, that man was such a snob!" she said. "And I was too naïve to understand what he was doing, how he was isolating me, until it was too late. By then I was trapped, and I was afraid of him."

She looked at him seriously. "He stalked me when I left him. I had a restraining order that kept him at least a hundred yards away. And he always made sure to follow that to the letter. But he also always managed to be there. Be everywhere."

"Another form of control," Bobby said. "If he could keep you on edge, irritate you, always be there when you looked around, then he was still in control."

"A complete control freak," Shayla said. "That's Owen down to the ground. My parents were shocked when they realized what he'd been doing to me. Daddy and Uncle Jimmy wanted to take Owen out to the woods and deal with him, man to man. Mama and I had to talk them down and remind them that we didn't want to be visiting them in jail."

She smiled then, and it was filled with affection. "Daddy always said he was just a country boy at heart," she said. "He'd have liked nothing better than to take Owen apart, piece by piece."

"As a cop, I'd have to disagree with that idea," Bobby said. "But as a man, I get it. Absolutely."

"What about your family?" she asked then. "You don't talk much about what they were like."

The curtain came down, shuttered his eyes. "It's not a happy story," he said quietly. "Not like yours."

"Happy or not, it's yours." She stroked her fingers over the back of his hand. "I'd like to know it."

"Didn't Shelly and Lewis already give you the short version?" He didn't mean to sound bitter, but he couldn't hide it.

Shayla turned so that she could curl her feet beneath her, then faced him and touched his cheek lightly. "Don't be upset because your friends care about you," she said gently. "And I didn't press for details. I was asking questions because I wanted to know what made you look so sad all the time."

When he sat silent, she moved to rest her head on his shoulder. "Are you going to fault me now for caring about you?" she asked.

"No." He reached for her hand, laced his fingers through hers. A quiet link. "You had a home, Shayla. A family. People that loved you, a place where you felt safe. What I had is exactly the opposite of that."

"Will you tell me about it?" she asked.

He stared out the windows at the gathering storm. There was a storm brewing inside of him, as well.

"I guess they were happy once," he said finally. "I don't really know. My…dad, he was a real good time Charlie. He drank too much…flirted too much. He played around with other women. I used to smell them on him when he came home. It made me feel sick, smelling that strange perfume in the air around him. And ashamed."

Shayla squeezed his hand gently, but said nothing. She wanted to be quiet and just listen, give him a chance to let some of those painful feelings out if he chose to.

"He was irresponsible," he went on. "He was always taking off with his girls, going to Atlantic City to gamble. He lost all kinds of money at the track, too, and then he'd have a lucky streak and win some back, and then lose it again. He had an addictive personality. He passed it on to my brother, that addiction to gambling. And Frank added drugs to that.

"But Mom…she…" He paused, felt the burn of tears in his throat. "She was always arguing with him about the women, the money. I only found out just before she died that she…" He cleared his throat softly. "She had an affair, too. It wasn't exactly _Father Knows Best_ at our house, Shay. There were arguments and ugly words, deafening silences. My father…he didn't care about me…he never…" He broke off, turned his head away as his eyes filled.

"He never what?" she asked after a moment.

"He just…" He blinked, bit back the tears, swallowed them. His voice was just a little shaky when he spoke again. "He never loved me," he murmured. "He just…sometimes he acted like I wasn't even there. He was on Frank's back all the time, but he just ignored me most of the time. Unless I got in his way. He'd get on me sometimes…about crying, about acting out. But all I wanted was for him to pay attention…to act like I mattered."

"Oh, honey." Her eyes filled as she moved to sit on his knee so she could get her arms around him. "I'm sorry."

He was silent for a moment, lost in his memories. "My mother was diagnosed schizophrenic when I was nine," he said at length. "And my dad walked out when I was eleven. He never looked back, never felt sorry for the fact that he was leaving a mentally ill woman alone with two young boys. He saw us when he felt like it…or really, he saw Frank. I was just there…I guess he made an effort, now and then, to spend some kind of time with me, but he was still…" He sighed. "Detached, I guess. Like he was only half there."

The tears were sliding down her cheeks now, and the way he sounded, suddenly so sad and small, almost like the child he had been, ripped her heart. This was the root of the whole thing, she knew. The loss of his mother and brother in the last year had been devastating to him, but it was his father's abandonment that had so damaged him. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he trembled with the memories.

"Oh, Bobby." She stroked his hair. "Here I was thinking it was a woman who hurt you so much, but it wasn't. It was a man."

"I wasn't his," he said, his eyes brutally dry now. "He knew about Mom's affair, and I guess he always believed that I didn't belong to him. A few months ago, I had a DNA test run to find out for sure, and when I got the results, it all made sense. He never wanted me..."

She was crying now, in soft, quiet sniffles as she held onto him, willed him to open his heart and let her love him, let her give him what she had. She knew she couldn't fill all of those voids, heal his wounds. He would have to face those hurts, purge himself and let them heal.

But she could help. Love could help. Love made all the difference.

He felt her trembling, felt her tears wetting the collar of his shirt. His eyes were bone dry, as if he had no tears left. But he didn't need them. Not when she would cry for him.

"It's ironic," he said slowly. "When he died, it wasn't Frank who was there, or any of those fair weather friends of his. It was me. I'm the one who cleaned out his apartment, made the funeral arrangements. I was the last person he saw. He wouldn't give me the answers I wanted, even then."

"Oh, God." It was a broken whisper as she hugged him tighter. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

"It shouldn't matter anymore. I'm forty-six years old. I should be past this by now."

"Of course it matters," she said gently. "Forty-six or not, there's a child inside of you that still hurts. His leaving broke that little boy's heart. You've never trusted anyone since."

He turned his eyes to the window, stared blindly for a moment, moved beyond words that she understood so completely.

"I took care of my mother," he said finally. "I did the best I could for her…and still she always wanted Frank. I think…the man she had the affair with…he hurt her. Maybe because she was breaking it off with him, I don't know. I was four when it happened. At least, that's what Frank told me. I don't remember it. She told everyone she'd been in a car accident and she stayed with my grandmother for a couple of weeks."

Thunder rolled in the distance as the sky darkened still more, and the wind rose, kicking up white caps on the sea. Bobby stared out the windows at the gloom, saw the first slash of lightning in those clouds as they moved in from the sea.

"I came from that affair," he said slowly. "And however she felt about him in the beginning, in the end she was afraid of him. Of what he turned into. He went on to become a killer, Shayla. He raped and murdered dozens of women over a period of almost thirty years before they caught him and put him on death row.

"And his last hand was a full house. He wanted to reach out and deliver one last slap, and so he asked for me by name, got my partner and me tangled up looking for the bodies of some of his other victims, and led me straight to a scrapbook with pictures of his conquests. One of them was my mother."

"And that's how you found out about the affair?"

"Partly." He kept his eyes focused on that rolling sea, watched the lightning as it began to fork across the sky. "He dropped enough hints and I just…I lost it."

He remembered grabbing Brady around the throat, slamming him against the wall. He shuddered, deliberately turned his mind away from the memory of those perfectly horrible moments when he'd imagined himself choking the life out of his own father. He could never have done it, he knew. But oh, in that moment – just in that brief moment – he'd wanted to.

"I went to my mother," he went on softly. "I asked her about it, about him. I made her tell me the truth." He took a deep, shaky breath. "Sometimes…sometimes I think that I understand now what made it hard for her to really see me. It was because of what happened between them, what he turned into. I think maybe…I was a constant reminder of that. Maybe that's why we danced around each other our whole lives."

He looked at her now, his eyes sad. "I told you it wasn't a happy story."

"No, it's not," she agreed. "But it's yours, and it's not over yet. There's lots more to write."

"Doesn't feel that way," he said quietly, thumbed away the tears that still lay on her cheeks. "Shay…I don't…I can't talk about this anymore. Not now."

"Alright." She nudged his head onto her shoulder, brushed her fingers through his hair. "Then we'll just sit here awhile and watch the storm."

He closed his eyes, rested his head in the curve of her shoulder, and let her soothe him. It wasn't so hard. Not really.

The rumbling thunder, the staccato drum of the rain, and Shayla's gentle touch lulled him into a quiet place of peace.

For the moment, he forgot that he'd locked his heart away, that he was determined to keep it that way. She was curled up in his lap, her arms wrapped around him, her fingers trailing lightly over the back of his neck.

There was nowhere else he wanted to be.

"Shayla…"

At the soft murmur of her name, she stirred. "Hmmm?"

"You matter to me, too."

It was all he said, and he didn't move, didn't lift his head to look at her. But he didn't have to. She could hear the emotion thickening his voice.

"I know," she said quietly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Shayla?"

Bobby called out her name as he opened her back door, poked his head in. When she didn't answer, he stepped inside, closed the door as Finn came slipping and sliding along the tile in his haste, his tail whipping from side to side in happy affection.

"How ya doin', buddy?" He crouched down to rub the dog's back, laughing when Finn flopped down and rolled over, belly up. "Glad to see me, huh, boy?"

He indulged in a few good scratches and rubs, then stood up and went to the pantry, dug out a rawhide bone and gave it to him.

Shayla had told him long since that he didn't have to knock before he came in, though he always tapped on the door and called out as he walked in, just to give her a heads up that someone was there.

Maybe it was the manners his mother had instilled in him as a child, or the cop in him that was concerned that she would so easily let people walk into her home. He was city-born and bred and you just didn't leave your doors unlocked so that anyone could walk in.

Then again, this was a small, tight-knit island community and it wasn't very likely that there would be someone traipsing in who wanted to do her harm, but still.

"Shay?" he called out again. "Where are you?"

He spied the note on the kitchen counter.

_Ran down to the market. Front door's locked, but if you're reading this you know the back's not. Stop scowling. You can scold me later for leaving my backdoor unlocked for you. I won't be long. Love you._

She'd signed her name with a flourish, drawn a heart around it, and added a line of X's and O's that made him grin foolishly.

He set the note aside, ambled through the house, comfortable to the point that he was uncomfortable all over again because it was all too easy to picture himself here with Shayla.

Sitting on the deck in the evening, watching the stars come to life, or curled up in the big armchair together in the winter, with a fire snapping cheerfully in the hearth and the smell of something wonderful baking in the oven.

A home. It always hit him that this was a home. And amplified the fact that his own house was just that, a house. It was a place to live, to eat and sleep in, but it wasn't a home.

Not like Shayla's, so cozy and warm with the photographs scattered here and there, the baskets of seashells and bowls of potpourri, the small bottles that held scented reeds or tiny flowers picked from her own beds; bottles she'd made herself, then fired and painted in vivid colors. She had a fondness for the fanciful, as well as the traditional, and she mixed old and new together in a hodge-podge that was as appealing as it was practical.

Every room in the house was painted, too. No white walls for Shayla. Not anywhere. Her color schemes were rich and bold in her bedroom and her front parlor, and in her other rooms were the colors of the sun, sand and sea.

In the midst of all this, was the contrast of textures that he supposed was innate in someone who worked so much with her hands and was adept at molding clay with them. The furniture in the parlor that doubled as an office was butter-soft leather the color of milk chocolate, and in her den the sofa and chairs were covered with a soft, sturdy canvas in pale yellow. The golden oak tables and bookcases added to the look and made the whole room seem to glow with the warmth of the sun.

It was a home that looked lived in, and like the person who lived in it was content. And she was. He felt it in the air whenever she was near, and even when she wasn't.

He wandered through the den, glancing at her bookcases again, smiling at the haphazard arrangement of her books. As for contrasts…well her book collection was as eclectic as her music collection. Well thumbed romances were tucked in with suspense thrillers, the occasional horror novel, and classics like _Les Miserables_ and _Little Women_. She also had an entire collection of books by Laura Ingalls Wilder and more than a few Nancy Drew mysteries.

Finn came to nudge at him, carrying the stuffed frog he favored, and Bobby took it and tossed it down the hall for him to chase. He followed after him, tossed the frog again and then walked into the sunroom, glanced at the piece that Shayla had been working on for the past few days.

She wasn't overly picky about him seeing her work while it was still in progress, though she didn't invite opinions until she was finished with it. She said that it interfered with her own vision if she listened to someone else's take on what something did or did not look like before she was done with it.

It made sense to him, so he kept his musings to himself and his reward for this was that she sometimes allowed him to sit with her while she worked.

She fascinated him, this fiery, passionate woman with a heart big enough to hold the entire world.

A heart he knew had been bruised severely by the man she'd married. Blinded by naiveté and the blush of courtship, she hadn't known what darkness lurked inside of Owen until she was trapped in the smothering folds of it.

She had told him scant details, but enough so that he had gotten a picture of an incredibly exacting and ruthless man who used his tongue like a whip and his hands like the keen blade of the scalpel he wielded in the operating room. It was a testament to his cruelty that he had managed to quench the fiery spirit that lived inside of her.

Having come up against her temper himself, and the beautiful, towering flame of passion that lived within her, he could only imagine the kind of fear Owen must have instilled in her. It had to have been viciously cold to have stifled her so completely.

He couldn't imagine doing such a thing to her, or even wanting to. How could anyone want to destroy the beauty of what she was, of all that she carried within her?

She was a force of nature. A streak of fire, like those meteors that were hurtling across the midnight sky as the showers reached their peak. She grabbed at life with both hands and squeezed as hard as she could to wring out every drop.

She lived in the moment. She could be quiet and reflective one moment, and then take off like a rocket the next. She liked music and rarely was her house ever without it. Even when she slept, she kept the music on low in the bedroom.

She liked color and scent and sound. She preferred having all of her windows thrown open to let in light and air. Sometimes he thought she absorbed that light, that air. There were times when he thought maybe if he stayed close enough to her, some of that light might reach him, too.

And there were times when he worried that if that light did reach him, he'd never be able to let her go. That it would lead him down a path he was deathly afraid to walk, though a part of him desperately wanted to. A big part.

He was nearing the end of his leave time. In a couple of days, Lewis and Shelly would be packing up and heading back to the city. He supposed he would, too, though as his time on the island drew to a close, he couldn't imagine what it would be like to go back to his lonely house. To go to bed alone, without Shayla tucked into his arms. To wake in the morning and not see her smile, or the love that spilled so freely from her eyes.

It hurt to think of it, so he tried thinking of something else. But his heart and mind were much too full of Shayla. She had tangled herself around his heart so much that he was beginning to panic at the thought of being without her. And then he would panic at the thought of staying with her, of letting her all the way into his life. But to be with her would require nothing less than everything. It was how she lived. Full tilt, all out, no hold-barred. She gave without reservation and he knew he would have to learn to do the same if he wanted a relationship with her.

He had watched her one morning, out on her surfboard, when the sky was leaden with storm clouds and the sea was throwing waves like bullets. No lightning or thunder that morning, just an offshore storm that kept the boats in the marina and brought out the surfers.

She'd been shouting and laughing with the rest of them, most of whom were years younger than she was, but she didn't care and neither did they. A group of teenagers had swarmed around her after she rode a particularly large wave all the way in until her board slid smoothly aground. They'd been cheering and high-fiving her as she hopped off her board and then the lot of them had turned and headed back into the frothing, wind-tossed water to do it all over again.

He smiled at the memory, wondered if it had been that ride that had inspired her latest sculpture. He thought he could almost see what it was becoming. The bottom looked like a wave, and rising from it was some kind of figure, though it wasn't finished. In fact, as he looked more closely, it almost looked like two figures, but he couldn't be sure and since it wasn't finished yet, he'd have to wait and see what became of it.

He glanced down at the sketchbook lying open on the table, smiled at the pencil drawing of Toby, his face fierce with concentration as he dug a hole in the sand. He flipped back a page and saw one of himself sitting on one of the deck chairs next door with Toby on his knee, holding a conch shell to the little boy's ear so he could listen for the sound of the sea.

Shayla had captured the tenderness of the moment so completely he felt his eyes fill. Did he really look like that when he held Toby? He looked at the sketch for a long moment through misty eyes.

He'd never realized that his desire for a family, his longing for children of his own to hold, was so evident on his face. Maybe it wasn't obvious to everyone, but Shayla had seen it.

He turned the pages, found more drawings of himself. He was, it seemed, her new favorite subject, and he wondered that he could be so unaware that she was drawing him, unless she was doing some of them from memory.

There was one that stopped him, jolted him slightly as he looked at it. She had drawn him while he slept sprawled over her bed, tangled comfortably in the sheet, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other flung across the bed.

Thankfully the sheet covered him enough. He wasn't sure he wanted to see a drawing of himself nude, as he didn't have that lean, hard body of his youth anymore. Not that Shayla minded; she didn't, and had told him so. Even so, he flipped through the book quickly to be sure she hadn't drawn him completely nude before he turned back to examine the other one again.

Did he really look like that? he thought again. Peaceful and content like that?

He certainly didn't feel that way. Or did he?

Even while he sat staring at the drawing he realized that he did feel at peace, at least when he was around her. She brought such joy with her, touched him with her playfulness, her lust for life, her passion for the things she loved, including him.

Had he already given her his heart then?

He checked, and found he wasn't sure of the answer.

He closed the book, went back down the hall to the den with Finn following at his heels. He turned on the stereo, set the CD changer to random, and then sprawled in the double armchair to wait for Shayla to come back.

Finn brought his frog over, gave a soft whine and nudged his hand. He smiled, grabbed one of its legs and gave a light tug, his smile widening when the dog tugged back.

That was how Shayla found them when she came in through the back door. Bobby was perched on the edge of the armchair, having a spirited game of tug-o-war with Finn and his favorite stuffed frog.

She set her one grocery bag on the counter and felt her heart swell to nearly bursting with the love she carried there for him.

"Oh, now here's a picture," she said as she crossed the kitchen. "My two favorite boys having a play date." She stopped beside the chair and lifted her hand to stroke it over his hair as she leaned to kiss him.

A tender touch, pure affection, and his heart rolled over in his chest. She had done it often enough, but it meant something more to him now, because of the drawings he'd seen. Because of the love he was suddenly able to feel much more acutely.

Her love was so huge, and so absolute. It surrounded him, lapped at him in gentle waves, and rattled that lock he kept on his heart. Rattled it hard.

"I bought a couple of steaks," Shayla said as she moved back into the kitchen, began to unpack the groceries. "Are Shelly and Lewis still over in Ocean Beach?"

"Yeah." He got up from the chair and went to put his arms around her, draw her close. "Cindy's keeping Toby for them so they can eat out alone tonight."

Surprised by the sudden embrace, Shayla gave a quiet sigh and hugged him back. "Nice to see you, too," she murmured. "You want to pour us some of the merlot I've got chilling in the fridge while I season the steaks?"

"Yeah." He gathered her closer. "In a minute."

"Okay," she agreed as she snuggled against him. "In a minute."

* * *

After dinner they sat on her porch swing and watched as evening fell and the stars winked to life. Bobby pushed the swing gently with his foot as Shayla settled happily into the crook of his arm and rested her head against his shoulder.

The music was on, something sweet and romantic by Celine Dion. The lyrics said so perfectly how he felt at the moment.

_But if you asked me to_

_I just might change my mind_

_And let you in my life forever_

_If you asked me to_

_I just might give my heart_

_And stay here in your arms forever_

_If you asked me to_

_If you asked me to. . ._

"Her voice is amazing." he said. "I like this one."

"You like Celine Dion?" Shayla grinned at him. "Ha! I love it!"

"Got me." He snugged her closer, put a soft kiss on her brow. "Don't tell anyone. You'll ruin my rep as the anti-social loner."

"That's just a front," she said lightly.

He was silent as she took one of his hands and brushed her fingers over the back of it. After a moment he found his voice, but barely. "Bull's-eye," he whispered.

Shayla went on stroking his hand gently. "You want so much, Bobby," she said softly. "Why won't you let yourself have it?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to keep it," he answered, and then blinked, startled that the words had come out. They had been circling his mind, but he hadn't meant to say them out loud.

"That's what scares you the most, isn't it?" Shayla lifted her head and met his eyes. "You don't trust anyone to keep their promises. And why should you, when the only man you knew as a father broke his?"

When he turned his head away, kept his eyes fixed somewhere far out to sea, Shayla got up and settled herself onto his knee. She put her arms around him, stroked his head gently for a long time, and let him sit there and think.

Her quiet understanding moved him, touched him deeply, in a place he had thought was long dead. "I never understood," he said thickly. "Why did they get married in the first place, if that was how they were going to treat each other? Why have kids if you're just going to abandon them?"

"Is that how you feel?" Shayla asked. "Abandoned?"

He shrugged, tried to smile, but couldn't quite pull it off. "Okay, doc, so is this where I'm supposed to tell you that I have abandonment issues?" he said with a small laugh that sounded forced.

She brushed her fingers through his hair. "I love you, Bobby," she murmured.

His eyes filled. He blinked hard at the tears as he put his arms around her, rested his brow against hers. "You make it hard to resist you," he whispered.

She put a soft kiss on the end of his nose. "Then don't."

"I should, for your sake."

"You shouldn't," she countered. "For your own sake."

"What would make you want to stay?" he asked quietly. "How can you give your love to someone who can't take it from you? Who can't open up and love you back?"

She stroked a tender hand along his cheek. "Because I know he wants to."

He shook his head, looked away from her. It was too much, all that she felt. It was surrounding him, pulling him in, and he was afraid to let it happen.

"Shayla…" He pulled back from her, tried to clear his head. "I just…I need to be alone for a little while."

She looked at him sadly. "I disagree," she said gently. "I think you've been alone long enough. But," she added, as she stood up and let go of him. "I'll do what you ask me. I've got some emails to catch up on." She lifted a hand to touch his cheek, brush it ever so lightly through his hair once more. "Come find me when you're done thinking up all those reasons that you know I'm going to tell you don't matter."

He would have smiled if he could have, but any movement of facial muscles at that moment would set the tears free and he didn't want her to see him cry. Instead, he waited until she went inside and then he got up and walked down to the beach.

He walked toward the lighthouse, away from the other houses. The solitary path he usually walked in the early mornings was peppered with couples walking hand in hand, talking quietly to each other or not all.

How many times had he and Shayla done the same thing over the last couple of weeks? And how many times had he wondered how long it would take her to get tired of trying to breach his walls?

But she wasn't getting tired at all. If anything, she was steadily climbing them, tapping the bricks out of place with her feet as she went. Those walls already had enough holes in them to let in the light that his heart cried out for even as he shrank from it.

He walked farther than usual, until the houses were distant and the moon was his only light. He spotted an abandoned lifeguard chair and climbed up to sit on the long bench. The moon hung low over the water, so close it seemed he could reach out and touch it. He remembered trying to do that as a child. He remembered his mother telling him that she would reach up and pluck it out of the sky for him.

_Would you like to hold the moon, Bobby? I'll reach up and get it for you._

_Can you, Mommy? _

_Sure I can. Just wait and see._

She'd bought him a glass reflecting ball, set it on a shelf near his bed, and told him that it was his very own piece of the moon. She'd loved him, in her own way, and as much as she knew how. He knew that. It wasn't her fault that her own mind had turned against her. No matter how he'd blamed her when his father left, he knew better now. Despite her own affair, he still laid the blame squarely at the feet of the only man he'd known as a father.

He didn't remember Brady's visits at all, though Frank had told him once that he used to bring him little gifts when he came to see their mother. No matter what his mother had said to the contrary, somehow Brady had always known. He shuddered to think of what the man had become, but he had to think that somewhere, back in those warmer days of his childhood, there had been something more than a cold-blooded killer inside the body of the man who had been part of the making of him.

The tears were flowing freely now. He didn't stop them; couldn't have stopped them if he tried. Had he really thought he didn't have any left?

The moon rose higher into a sky filled with stars as he sat there, with his head bowed, quietly crying into the night. He didn't hear Shayla until she had already climbed up onto the platform. By then it was much too late to stop the tears, to turn away from her. Instead, he reached for her, drew her down onto his knee so that he could rest his head on her shoulder.

Those tiny, graceful shoulders suddenly seemed to have the strength of a thousand men.

"Did you really think I'd let you sit out here and cry alone?" Shayla asked softly as she held him close. "Do you think I don't understand how much you hurt?"

He couldn't answer her for the tears and the sudden, aching lump that clogged his throat. He felt her gentle hands rubbing his back, her cheek brushing lightly over his, and realized that he'd already fallen in love with her. No matter that he'd tried not to, no matter that he'd locked his heart away time and again.

How had he missed that it was Shayla who held the key?

"Open your heart to me, Bobby," she whispered. "Let me love you."

"I don't know how." He turned into her neck, put a soft kiss there. "Tell me how."

"You have to trust me." She stroked a hand over the back of his head. "You have to trust that I mean what I say."

"I know you mean it, Shay…now..." He sighed, lifted his head from her shoulder and stared out at Venus hanging low in the eastern sky. "Things change…people change…"

"That's the heart of it for you, isn't it?" Shayla cupped his chin until he looked at her. What was left of his tears glittered on his cheeks. She brushed them away. "That's what you're afraid of," she went on. "Not that things might fizzle out in a few weeks, or even a few months. What really scares you is that you'll pledge your heart and your life and it'll last for years and years, and then one day it'll be over, and you'll be left hollowed out and bleeding, just like you were when your father walked out."

Stunned once again how completely she understood, he lifted his hands to frame her face as he stared into her eyes. "I…Shayla…I don't know if I can do this."

"You can do anything you want to." She kissed him softly. "If you want it enough to hold onto it."

"Do you think I want to let you go?" He shook his head and felt the weight of despair like lead inside of his heart. "I want to hold on, Shay. I want to wrap you up and hold onto you forever." He stroked her cheeks, wishes and wants and desires tangling into a huge knot inside of him that pulled tighter and tighter.

"It's been nearly three weeks, and already I don't know how to get through the day without seeing you," he said, despair and desperation mingled in his voice. "I walk through your house and it feels more like home to me than my own house ever has. I wake up next to you and all I can do is lay there and wonder how long you'll stay, and why I'm the one you want. You deserve someone who can open up and love you back…someone who hasn't been beaten by life… someone who won't be afraid every day of his life that he'll come home and find you gone…"

"Oh, God." The lump in her throat ached and she didn't even try to hold onto her tears. "Bobby…" She kissed him softly, everything in her crying for him. "So much pain," she murmured. "I wish I could take it from you. I wish I could just reach down inside of you and take it away."

She hugged him to her, as if by sheer will she could banish every hurt, heal every wound. "I love you," she said softly. "I've been waiting for you…like some secret gift that I had yet to find. How could I ever give up on you? You're the one I've been looking for all this time. I lay beside you at night and marvel at the way things work out. That I would survive my marriage only to lose my parents…and that I would travel over six hundred miles away from everything I know, only to find that I'm home."

Shayla looked into his eyes and saw his heart there. "Bobby…don't you understand? You're the reason I'm here. I came here for _you_."

He kissed her then, felt that lock on his heart slide open. "I need you, Shayla…I need you with me. Something about you makes me think I can learn how to live again." He thumbed away her tears even as he let his own fall. "You love with everything you have…you don't hold anything back. I want that, Shay. I really do."

"You can have it, Bobby," she whispered with her hands in his hair and her lips brushing over his. "You can have it all."

He could, he thought. If he just let go, stepped into the deep end and let love carry him away, he could have those things that he wanted so much. A home, a family. He could have everything.

"I'm afraid," he said quietly.

"I know." She stroked his cheek tenderly. "Are you going to let that fear stop you? Or are you going to reach out and take hold of what you want?"

He framed her face with his hands, held her eyes for a long moment before he spoke.

"Everything I want is right here," he said softly, chanced opening himself a little more. "I love you, Shayla."

She smiled at him, her heart doing a fluttery little dance in her chest. "I know."

And now he smiled right back at her. "You do, don't you?" he said with a small laugh and touched his lips gently to hers. "You knew before I did."

"I knew before you were willing to admit it to yourself," she corrected. "Your heart always knew."

He cuddled her close, sighed in quiet contentment when she settled against him and nestled her head onto his shoulder. "It's good with us, Shay. It's really good."

"Yes," she murmured. "It is."

* * *

Later, as they lay curled together after making love, she fell asleep in his arms. As he did so often now, he held her as she slept, stroking her hair as he lay listening to the sound of the ocean outside the open windows. The music was on low, the lilt of pipes and flutes and the soft weeping of a violin.

Finn lay curled beside the bed, as always, and every so often he'd shift and give a slight _whoosh_ of breath as he settled back into sleep.

All was quiet, the moon had set, and the darkness wasn't lonely anymore. Now it was soft and warm, and filled with the peace of mind he had sought all of his life.

Because of Shayla, he was learning to let his walls down, to open himself up to the real possibility of having a home with a family in it.

He turned his head to press his lips to her brow. She murmured in her sleep and snuggled closer. "I love you, Shay," he whispered.

Almost as if she heard him, she turned to pillow her cheek on his shoulder and her arm tucked just a little tighter around his waist. He closed his eyes then, and slid effortlessly, comfortably, into sleep.

He awoke at dawn, roused her gently with soft kisses and made tender love to her, then left her sleeping again and went downstairs to start the coffee. While it brewed, he sat down at her table with his laptop and began a new journal entry.

_August 14, 2008_

_It seems right that I'm at Shayla's while I write this. It's where I should be when I finally admit how much I love her. I needed to write that down somewhere and make it real. _

_I'm completely in love with her. I'm afraid, too. But suddenly that fear seems a lot less significant. She's so beautiful and strong, but not so strong that she can't let her own vulnerability show. Being with her makes me feel like I can do anything…like it's worth the risk of pain to love her. It's worth everything to love her!_

_I've never been in love like this. There's never been anyone in my life who touched me the way she does. She gives everything. She doesn't hold anything back. She lives with everything she has, and she loves with everything she has. Shayla doesn't do anything halfway._

_She's like a comet, shooting through life, grabbing everything she can hold as she goes. She's as wild and untamed as the sea she so loves, and as tender and loving as anyone could ever be. _

_I want to love the way she does – live the way she does – with everything I have. I don't know how to do that yet, but I'm learning. _

_She's sleeping now, all curled up in the sheets, with her arms around the pillow where I was laying before I got up. She wears my t-shirts all the time. Sleeps in them, too – until I get them off of her that is. Why is that so sweet? It's like being a teenager again, letting her borrow my shirts. And when I wear them later, even after she washes them, they smell like her. I carry the scent of her everywhere…and the warm, soft feeling of her arms around me. Even when I'm not with her, I still feel her as if she's right beside me._

_I can picture us living here together, in this house by the sea. It's a home, this place. A home filled with love because of the person who lives here. She's everything I ever dreamed about – everything I ever wanted. With a white picket fence and a dog, too. Shayla says that Finn is already half mine, the way he follows me around. In fact, he's lying under the table at my feet right now. The only thing missing is children._

_Children…a family. I haven't let myself think about that – really think about it – in a long time. But now…now I think about having a family with Shayla. She'll be a great mother. I've seen her with Toby, and with Cindy, too. Toddlers or teenagers, it doesn't seem to matter. It's evident how much Shayla loves kids. _

_I want her to have mine. I want to spend my life with her. It's her that made me realize forty-six – okay almost forty-seven – is nowhere near the end of the road. I used to think that surviving my childhood was a great accomplishment. Surviving Mom's cancer…that wasn't so easy either. And all the things that just piled up and piled up until I feel like I'm buried under them. But now I wonder – no I don't wonder…I know – it's time to stop surviving and start living. _

Yes, he thought. No more surviving. It was time to live.

He saved the file, closed the computer, and got up to rummage in the refrigerator and take out the eggs and bacon, then went to the pantry for the potatoes. By the time Shayla woke up, he'd have breakfast ready for her, and a fresh pot of coffee, too.

It was the least he could do for the woman who had saved his life.


End file.
